In Sickness and in Health
by JoselynRae
Summary: It seems only natural that Hunter and McCall would turn to each other during a crisis. But when McCall gets engaged at the same time Hunter is diagnosed with cancer, she is forced to choose between the family she wants and caring for her best friend in what could be his last days. How will this choice affect their relationship when Hunter is healthy again?
1. Chapter 1

**In Sickness and in Health**

After being partners and trusting each other with their lives every single day for several years, Hunter and McCall are the best of friends. It seems only natural that they would turn to each other during a crisis, even when they are both romantically involved with other people. But when McCall becomes engaged to be married at the same time Hunter is diagnosed with cancer, she is forced to choose between the family she has dreamed of and being there for her best friend in what could be his last days. What choice will she make, and how does that choice affect their relationship when Hunter is healthy again?

Chapter 1

"Wha's that?" Mitch mumbles half asleep, stretching his arm over McCall.

"Mmm? I don't…my beeper." McCall rolls over and roots around the top of the nightstand for her beeper. She finds it. "It's my beeper," she sighs while stifling a yawn.

Mitch lifts himself up onto his elbows to check the time on his alarm clock. Crashing back to the mattress with a thud, he groans into his pillow, "Tell Hunter to get a life. It's gaw damn four in the morning."

Still looking at the number glowing green on her beeper, she says skeptically, "I don't think it's Hunter, I don't recognize this number." She has to roll over the other direction and lean across Mitch to grab the phone, the oversized sleeve of his tee-shirt she is wearing brushing his chin. She quickly dials, and the phone is answered on the first ring.

"Hope Mitch let you go to sleep early, because this is your four am wake up call." It is Hunter, after all. Mitch sighs in aggravation, able to hear Hunter's voice on the line, and squints at McCall.

Sitting up and turning away from him, McCall sighs, too. "What's going on?"

"Three bodies found behind a strip club on Hollywood Boulevard. Get dressed, I'll pick you up in ten."

"I, uh…I'm not…"

"You're at Mitch's, I know, I'll pick you up there in ten minutes. It's on my way."

"Where are you, anyway?"

"Rachel's. Now get dressed."

Hunter pulls into Mitch's driveway exactly ten minutes later. She has never been able to figure out how he does this. It's as if the universe aligns itself just to ensure that he arrives precisely when he says he will. She has had no choice but to put on the tight white jeans, lavender sleeveless sweater and sandals she had worn over to Mitch's house last night. She's going to have to get her LAPD jacket out of her car to keep warm in the chilly morning air, especially since this sounds like an outdoor crime scene. She plans to spend as little time as possible inside the strip club, already wearing yesterday's underwear she would prefer to not add the smell of stale cigarette smoke to the mix. She'll let Hunter do those interviews, he will enjoy the view better, anyway. Slipping into the not-made-for-petite-females police issue jacket, she dips into Hunter's passenger seat.

"So how long have you been shacking up with this wimp?" asks Hunter, pulling out of the driveway before she even gets her seatbelt buckled. McCall notices that his attire looks as wrinkled and unprofessional as hers.

"I'm not _shacking up._ We have been seeing each other exclusively for five months. Some nights I choose to sleep at his place."

"Uh huh."

"I could be asking you the same question. I didn't realize things had progressed with Rachel." It was a weeknight, and Hunter rarely has dates that lead to sleepovers during the week. He takes his job way too seriously.

"Things have progressed." He says matter-of-factly, preoccupied with merging onto the highway.

"So you like her?"

"If I didn't like her things would not have progressed."

"Oh, c'mon, talk to me!"

"Why are you so chatty this early? You're never chatty before coffee. Mr. Wimp must be pretty good." He quickly leans against his door, pulling his arm away from her, trying to dodge her swats.

Blushing, she continues to press him, "It's just…it's just you haven't had a relationship in a while. I'm curious what's different about her."

He looks over at her for a second, then back to the road ahead. Shrugging, he replies, "She's nice. Sweet." He risks a sideways glance at McCall to see if that answer is enough to please her curiosity, but she's still looking at him waiting for more. Taking a deep breath, he continues, "She's the kind of person that does nice things for people just to make them happy. I like being around her, makes me feel like being a better person myself."

"I do nice things for you."

With a mischievous grin and a low chuckle, he replies, "Not as nice as her." This time he's not quick enough and McCall lands a playful punch squarely on his bicep.

They drive up to the strip club, with a swarm of people and at least twelve cop cars around it. He laughs, "Saved by the blue and red lights." But McCall has already turned her focus to the scene in front of them.

The crowd of officers leads them around to the dumpsters on a narrow alley behind the strip club, which McCall notes as a rundown stucco building that had not seen a fresh coat of paint since it was built in the late seventies. There is little to no lighting in the alley, even the primitive light fixture over the rear access door of the building is burned out. The first responders have set up mobile lights, which create strips of light between elongated shadows. The alley is narrow, barely enough room for a mid-size car to drive through between the building and the dumpsters. A concrete block wall separates the alley from a three-story apartment building.

For once, Hunter and McCall beat the medical examiner and his team to the scene. The bodies of three adult men are still visible, haphazardly wedged between the two grimy, lime green dumpsters. Hunter asks around for the first responder at the scene and is pointed in the direction of Officer Barry, who is speaking to a young couple looking like they would prefer to be anywhere but here.

"We, uh, yeah, we just, ya know," the man talking to Officer Barry stutters as they approach, "we uh came out here to, ya know, like…get it on…like. And, uh, my girl here just tripped right over that foot there. That one, ri' there." He points toward the bodies while shuffling from one foot to the other, unable to stand still. "Couldn't see anythin', ya know. It's so dark. Thas why we came back 'ere in first place."

McCall steps away from the couple looking at the apartment building behind the wall. Hunter leans down from behind her, until he's just inches from her ear, "A little high on something, are we?"

"You think?" McCall scoffs, craning her neck to peek around Hunter and take in the couple one more time. "Every woman's dream come true, a quickie up against malaria central over here."

Pointing to the apartments she changes the subject back to the task at hand, "I think we need to start there, maybe someone saw or heard something. Seems more likely than anyone coming and going from this fine establishment."

"The bodies were obviously just dumped here." Looking around making note of his surroundings, Hunter says almost to himself, "The only information we can hope for is a description of the vehicle that dumped them."

"Yeah."

By the time the ME arrives, the bodies carted off, and the owners and managers of the strip club have been interviewed it is barely seven am. First impressions from the ME are that the three men had suffered blunt-force trauma to their heads and upper bodies less than twelve hours ago. Forensics confirmed Hunter's assessment that the killings were done elsewhere.

As McCall had suggested, they start their investigation by going door to door at the apartment complex behind the strip club looking for any witnesses. They had grabbed breakfast at a nearby diner, wasting time until it was a reasonable hour to start knocking on doors, and swapping notes from the crime scene. They only uncover one witness - a bartender, barely old enough to drink himself, who had just gotten home from work when he thought he heard men arguing and possibly saw a dark colored van driving away a few minutes later. But then, of the eleven doors they knocked on only three were answered.

"There's a good chance some of these units are empty." McCall is grasping at straws, scratching her forehead in frustration. The parking lot for the apartment building is largely vacant, the cracked and crumbling asphalt lot reflecting the sunlight into her eyes.

"More likely the occupants are either too drugged to wake up or too scared to answer the door." Hunter responds, equally frustrated, glancing back at the units with the best view of the alley.

"So what we have right now is three John Doe's killed yesterday evening and found in an alley at two am, an unknown crime scene, some men arguing sometime between midnight and midnight-thirty and a generic dark van that may or may not have anything to do with the John Does?"

Removing his sunglasses and rubbing his eyes, he sighs, "That about sums it up."

"Great. I have a headache already."

"Let's get outta here."

Back at their desks, Captain Devane approaches them for an update. "Don't you two look like death warmed over?"

"Well, that's what you get when you pull me out of bed in the middle of the night." McCall responds with a smirk as she fishes through the myriad of notes and reports strewn across her desk.

"Got anything new?"

Finally finding what she is looking for, she answers the captain. "We just got the fingerprint analysis on the victims and only one was in the system — a Travis Davies. He was picked up a few months ago for public intoxication, twenty-one years old, home address looks like an upscale neighborhood in Long Beach. I'm guessing it's his parent's house. I am going to go home and change clothes, and then go talk Davies' parents. Maybe they know the other two victims. In the meantime I've alerted missing persons."

"Was there a car registered in his name?" asks Devane.

"No. If he has a vehicle, it may be in his parent's name. I will find that out."

"Anything else?"

"No," McCall answers sounding defeated. "Hunter is going back to the strip club to try to talk to some of the staff that was working last night. He'll also check the apartments again, see if he can find anyone else that may have heard or seen anything. You know, what I keep coming back to is that all three men were clean cut, well dressed — not what we would ordinarily expect to find dead in an alley in that neighborhood."

"Ok, well, keep me updated."

"Will do," says Hunter as he stands up gathering his things to leave. Nodding at McCall, "See ya later."

XXXXX

McCall feels like a new woman after finally showering and donning clean clothes. Having to tell parents that their child, no matter how old that child is, is dead is by far the worst part of her job. She's been there — on the receiving end of a cop showing up on your doorstep to tell you that a piece of yourself is gone forever. She picks out her black suit from her closet, the one normally reserved for funerals and court appearances. Sometimes the two events are not really all that dissimilar. She does not normally get to dress specifically for this occasion. Usually, she dresses in the early morning unaware that she will be the barer of such grave news that day. Taking one last look in the mirror, she rushes out the door to head to Long Beach.

The street Travis Davies reportedly lived on looks as though it could be in a movie as the epitome of wealthy suburban life. Tree-lined with manicured lawns and picturesque homes, McCall wonders what it must have been like to grow up privileged. She pulls up to the address she had scribbled on a scrap of paper and takes in the expansive white house before her, with it's two-story porch supported by grand columns and an ornate chandelier hanging above the double front doors. The rocking chairs on one side of the porch, framed by potted plants and overflowing flowers in shades of red and pink, give an impression of quaintness amongst the grandeur. She quietly shuts her car door and slowly makes her way up the walkway, rehearsing what she plans to say.

A neatly dressed, middle-aged woman opens the door and smiles warmly at McCall, "Hello. May I help you?"

"Are you Mrs. Davies?" McCall asks.

"Yes, I am." The woman's smile wanes as she looks at McCall curiously.

"My name is Sergeant Dee Dee McCall, I'm with the Los Angeles police department. Do you have a son named Travis?"

"Yes, Sergeant, is something wrong?"

"Can I come in and speak with you for few minutes?"

Mrs. Davies ushers McCall into a bright, but formally furnished sitting room just inside the front door. As McCall takes a seat on a blue velvet sofa she asks her if her husband or any other children are home. The woman assures her that she is alone.

"I am so sorry to tell you this, but your son, Travis, was found dead early this morning." McCall says speaking slowly and tentatively.

It takes a few moments for the woman to absorb what she has just heard. She continues to stare at McCall as if waiting for her to continue with more information. Eventually, she begins to sob and McCall sits patiently until the victim's mother calms down enough to speak.

"How? I mean, how did it happen?" she asks McCall.

"We are not sure yet. He was found with two other men behind a strip club, but it appears he was killed somewhere else."

"Killed? You mean he was murdered?"

"Yes, ma'am. But we do not have much information. I was hoping you could answer some questions for me that might help us find out how this happened."

"But…but how did he …?" she brakes off, unable to continue.

"We are not sure of that yet, either. An autopsy is being done now. Do you know of anyone that might want to hurt him? Anyone your son didn't get along with?"

"No, of course not! My son was a good boy." Again, Mrs. Davies begins to cry and McCall waits for her calm down.

"The two other men found with your son, we have not been able to identify them yet. Can you tell me maybe who his close friends are or maybe his roommate?" McCall asks the woman. She has polaroid pictures of both men, but prefers to not add to the woman's discomfort by showing her their bloody and fractured faces.

The woman looks down at her hands before nodding yes. "Travis is in a fraternity at UCLA. He and a friend from high school, Kevin, uh, I can't think of his last name, but anyway, they were pledging this fraternity together." She suddenly walks over to a cabinet in the corner of the room and pulls out a photo album. "Shaddler, Kevin Shaddler, that's it. Here is a picture of them together from a fraternity event a few months ago." There in the picture is one of the other victims.

"Thank you, Mrs. Davies, this is very helpful." McCall hands the photo back to her. "Just one more question for you. Does your son have a car?"

Mrs. Davies nods her head, but does not look away from the photo of Travis and Kevin. "He is…" She stops and lets out a small whimper. "He was driving my old BMW. We let him take it when he started college."

"Again, I am so sorry to have to bring you this news. I will need the name and address of the fraternity, if you have it. Do you want to call someone? Your husband maybe? I can stay with you until he gets home."

"No, no that won't be necessary." The older woman finally looks up at McCall as she answers, tears streaming down her cheeks.

After getting the information she needs from Travis's mother, McCall radios Hunter from her car updating him on the information she learned. They agree to meet at the fraternity house before trying to locate Kevin Shaddler's family.

They arrive at the fraternity house just seconds apart and walk up to the house together. A man wearing a cast on his right arm answers the front door. He looks more like a freshman in high school than a college student, and his slightly disheveled appearance and dark rings under his eyes give the impression that he has not slept in days. His demeanor suddenly becomes nervous when Hunter and McCall introduce themselves, and they exchange knowing looks making sure the other noticed this change, too.

"Is the president of the fraternity, or some kind of house dad available to speak with us?" Hunter asks the nervous frat guy.

"Um," he looks behind him nervously, "no, I don't think they are here."

"Well, do you mind if we come in and ask a few questions to anyone who is here?"

"Oh, uh, yeah, I guess," he says and moves back to let Hunter and McCall inside. "I'm just a pledge, but I can get someone else to come talk to you."

"Just a pledge? What does that mean?" Hunter asks.

"I am not a member yet. There's like this test period to make sure I fit in."

"Oh, ok. And your name is?"

"Jonathon, sir."

"Jonathon. Ok, Jonathon, you go get someone who might know something about what goes on around here." He turns to leave, but Hunter continues, "And, Jonathon, you don't seem to be a very popular guy."

"Excuse me?"

"Your cast. You only have three signatures on it. Doesn't seem like you have too many friends."

Jonathon looks at his cast, confused, as if the cast is going to explain it to him. "Oh, um, I just got it last night."

"Oh," Hunter responds, waiting for the injured kid to walk away before turning to McCall. "Broke his arm last night, did he?"

"That's real interesting, isn't it?" she whispers.

"Officers, welcome! I'm Levi Jenson, VP of Membership, how can I help you?" A boisterous man wearing an UCLA hoodie, with the pink collar of his button-down shirt popped up from underneath it, approaches them. A few other fraternity members slowly trickle into the large entryway of the frat house behind him.

"It's 'sergeant' and we would like to ask you a couple questions about Travis Davies and Kevin Shaddler." McCall responds, taking a small step toward the vice president asserting herself ahead of Hunter.

"Okay, sure. Why?"

"Because they were found dead early this morning."

"Oh, wow, I, um, wow, that's crazy," Levi answers as a few more men slowly make their way in to the room.

"Do you know anything about their whereabouts last night?"

"No. Last night you say? No, I have no idea."

"How about you, Levi?" Hunter interjects. "What were you doing last night?"

"I was at the library. Studying," says Levi.

"All night?"

"Yeah, sure. Had an exam this morning," says Levi with a smirk.

Before Hunter can respond with his Hunter-esque 'uh huh,' McCall continues on with another question. "There was a third man found with Mr. Davies and Mr. Shaddler. Do you recognize him?" McCall pulls the pictures out of her purse and hands Levi the one of the last remaining John Doe.

Levi looks suddenly contrite as he glances at the picture. He has to look away and clear his throat before speaking, "That's, uh, that's Skip."

He hands the picture back to McCall without looking at it again, and clears his throat again. "So what happened to them?"

"That's why we are here. Perhaps you can tell us?" McCall responds.

"Why would I know?" He asks defensively.

"You said his name is Skip?" Hunter asks, causing Levi to jump as if he'd forgotten Hunter was still there.

"Well, yeah, we call him…I guess we called him Skip. It was a joke. He is the only Hispanic in the fraternity, so we called him 'Skip' like, you know, sounding like a typical white preppy dude. His real name is Oscar Lopez."

"Were any of these men pledges?" McCall asks.

"So, uh, no. No they weren't pledges."

"Funny, I swore Travis' mother said he and Kevin were pledging the fraternity. That's what that means, doesn't it? If they were pledging the fraternity, then they were pledges?"

"Oh, you know what, they were pledges. That's right. My mistake."

"Just Travis and Kevin? Or Skip, too?"

"I would have to check the membership rolls."

"But you said you are Vice President of Membership? Isn't that what you said? But you don't remember who's a pledge and who's a member?" asks Hunter.

"I, I just got confused."

Right then the door to the stairway opens and man with scrapes and bruises covering his face emerges. When he sees the crowd of people around the two detectives, he quickly turns and runs back up the stairs.

"What was that?" Hunter asks pointing to the door.

"What was what? I didn't see anything," Levi answers feigning innocence.

"Right," Hunter responds, looking around the group of men surrounding them. Slowly the gaggle starts breaking up.

McCall hands Levi her card and tells him to call her if he thinks of anything that might help with the investigation, and she and Hunter walk out of the house.

"There is something going on here. These guys had something to do with these murders, I know it," Hunter says quietly as McCall walks along side of him to their cars.

"Yeah, we are going to have to talk to the two guys with injuries. But you know they are going to be pressed to keep quiet."

"Yeah."

"Hey, take a look over there in the back of the parking lot," McCall says pointing beyond their parked cars.

"A blue Suburban?"

"Could look like a dark-colored van to a tired bartender in the middle of the night."

Looking around to see if there is anyone else in the parking lot, which there is not, Hunter takes off toward the vehicle. "Let's check it out."

They walk around the Chevrolet Suburban, checking the doors, which are all locked, and peeking in the windows.

"Nothing," McCall says, checking her watch. "Alright, well, let's go talk to Kevin Shaddler's parents and then figure out who Oscar Lopez is. And I guess I'm going to have to cancel my plans tonight."

"Two nights in a row?" Hunter teases her.

"Yes, two nights in a row. Why do you care?"

"Getting awfully serious."

"Why, yes, it is." She smiles up at him. "And you don't have plans with Rachel tonight?"

"I'll see you Casa Shaddler," Hunter replies without looking at her and gets into his car.

"I'll take that as a yes," McCall says aloud as she turns toward her own vehicle.

XXXXX

The next morning they are still without the autopsy reports and with very little new information discovered from the Shaddler's or Oscar Lopez's background information, they are slowly and quietly working their way through their messages and paperwork.

"So when do I get to meet Rachel?" McCall asks, glancing up from her typewriter.

"You met her," responds Hunter without looking up.

"No, pointing at me while I'm on the phone saying 'by the way that's my partner — now let's get outta here before she hangs up' is not an introduction."

Hunter laughs while shuffling through a stack of messages. "It was only our second date, I didn't want her to be subjected to the McCall inquisition."

"McCall inquisition?!" McCall's voice does the high-pitched squeak it always does when she's exasperated. "What do you mean 'McCall inquisition?' I'm always nice to your dates." He looks up at her this time with a 'you gotta be kidding' look on his face. "What? All I want to do is get to know them. Is that so bad? To want to be friends with your girlfriends?"

"Friends? It's more like marking your territory."

"I do not mark my territory. Believe me, you are not territory I want to mark. They can have you. But speaking of marking territory," she points at him with a playful grin, "Mitch told me what you said the first time he met you."

"I have no idea what you're referring to."

"I quote, 'If you hurt her, even a little a bit, she will kick your ass. And when she's done, I'll finish the job.'" Again, he laughs. "Uh huh, sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

She starts picking at a white carnation in her vase of flowers sitting on her desk between them. This vase is always full of a variety of flowers in shades of pinks, purples and yellows with an occasional orange around Halloween and Thanksgiving, but the color of choice since Mitch arrived on the scene has veered towards white. He wonders if she's even aware that her day dreaming of wedding dresses is affecting her flower selections.

Picking her words carefully, and keeping her focus on the carnation, she asks, "So what if I invited you and Rachel over for dinner with Mitch and me this weekend? Just, you know, a casual little dinner?"

Hunter sighs and gives her another 'you gotta be kidding look.' "Dinner with you and Mitch?"

"What? You like Mitch. You said so yourself."

"No, I believe what I said is that I like Mitch for you. I don't get the whole literary thing he does."

"History. He's a history professor, not literature."

"Same difference."

"You weren't complaining when he took you to the UCLA football game a couple of weeks ago…"

Realizing he is not going to get out of this, he gives in, "Ok, what time do you want us to come over Saturday?"

"Seven o'clock," she responds and he has an urge to slap the satisfied grin right off her face.

..._to be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Hunter and Rachel arrive at McCall's home Saturday evening at exactly seven o'clock. His hands begin to sweat as they walk up to the front door, with his right hand resting lightly on Rachel's shoulder and a bottle of wine in his left. He is always nervous being with McCall and a date at the same time, and he has never understood McCall's insistence on knowing his girlfriends. It's as if she feels it necessary to their relationship - his and McCall's. He has no desire to know her boyfriends, although he wants her boyfriends to know him. McCall has a way of making you feel special, like you are the most important person in her life, or at least in that moment that she is with you. This trait makes her one hell of an interrogator. But he does not like being reminded that he is not the only man she makes coffee for in the morning.

"We're going to the back door?" Rachel asks him, slightly confused, as he steers her through the gate into McCall's back yard instead of to the front door.

"She's going to be in the kitchen, anyway," responds Hunter.

She continues to look confused until she sees McCall standing in the kitchen through the glass door. He taps on the glass lightly before reaching for the doorknob.

McCall smiles when she them and waves for them to come in, although Hunter already has the door half open. Aromas of sautéed onions and oregano, and the unmistakable voice of Peter Cetera singing _You're the Inspiration_, greet them as they walk into McCall's neatly appointed den.

Mitch looks up from the stereo system, and walks toward them. Mitch is tall by normal standards, being six-foot-one, but next to Hunter he looks miniature; his thin runner's frame does him no favors, either. He looks every bit the part of the nerdy professor with his gold wire-rimmed glasses, thick wavy brown hair showing a hint of gray around the temples, and tan button-down shirt tucked into black corduroy slacks. But his charming smile and expressive nature makes him a legend among the UCLA co-eds, according to the stories McCall tells. "Hey, Rick, good to see you." Reaching his hand toward the bottle of wine, he says, "Let me take that for you. And you must be Rachel!"

They greet each other, making quick introductions, as McCall makes her way over to them. Hunter has told her very little about Rachel, beyond how they met and that she is a gymnastics instructor. She's pretty, McCall notes, with long strawberry blond hair and a big genuine smile, but she is not Hunter's usual gorgeous blond type. Her fitted kelly green sweater compliments her complexion perfectly, and her shorter-than-perhaps-appropriate skirt shows off her muscular, tan legs. McCall often turns heads with her slim figure, but Rachel has curves she can only dream about.

Hunter leans down to give McCall a quick hello peck on the check when she approaches them. Holding out her hand to Rachel, "Hi, I'm Dee Dee. It is so nice to finally meet you!"

"Oh, thank you. It's nice to meet you, too."

"I hope you two came hungry; Dee Dee is cooking enough food to feed all of LA," Mitch calls from the kitchen, searching a drawer for a corkscrew.

"Yes, but it is eatable?" Hunter teases.

"Don't listen to him, Rachel, she's an excellent cook," Mitch retorts.

"Let me just ask one question — did any of the ingredients bite when they were pulled out of the back of the refrigerator?"

"He finds molded cheese in my fridge one time and he won't let me forget it." McCall laughs, rolling her eyes.

"And expired orange juice," Hunter adds.

"Ok, and expired orange juice."

"And a rotten tomato."

"Stop! You're going to scare the poor woman," McCall retorts and turns toward Rachel. "I work a lot of hours, I don't always have time to clean out my refrigerator every time he comes over."

As a timer dings in the kitchen she address Hunter directly, "I bought everything fresh this morning. Happy? Now I better go get the stuffed mushrooms out of the oven. Rachel, can I get you a drink? A glass of wine?"

"Wine would be great," Rachel replies.

"Hunter, wine? Juice?"

"No, thanks, I'll pour myself something," Hunter responds, following McCall into the kitchen and taking a bottle of scotch out of the cabinet over the oven, reaching over McCall as he does. As far he knows, she does not like scotch, but she always has a bottle of his favorite in her cabinet.

"Your house is lovely, Dee Dee," says Rachel as she looks around the den and focuses on the framed pictures on the fireplace mantle.

"Thank you so much. I just moved in about two months ago — I'm still working on getting things just right," replies Dee Dee.

"She better stay here for longer than two years this time. When she moved in I warned her this is the last time I'm helping. Three moves in five years. I'm done," jokes Hunter, joining Rachel near the fireplace.

"Oh, please," McCall laughs as she hands Rachel a glass of wine. "I didn't even ask him to help this time, he just showed up."

Hunter starts to respond, a slight tinge of red creeping up his neck from embarrassment. This is exactly why he does not like McCall and his dates to intersect. His last girlfriend dumped him, claiming that he cared more for McCall than her. She was probably right.

"And I, for one, was grateful," Mitch says as he puts an arm around McCall's back, lightly kissing her temple, and saving Hunter from trying to explain. "You have a lot of heavy stuff, my dear."

"So how did you guys meet?" Rachel asks, smiling at the two of them.

McCall and Mitch look at each other, grinning, for several seconds in a silent argument over who is going to tell the story. McCall is the first one to start the tale, laughing as she does so. "I get this out-of-the-blue phone call one day from some professor wanting to buy me coffee so that he can get some information on a case."

"The Black Dahlia murder - have you ever heard of it?" Mitch asks Rachel directly.

"Sure! Of course! Wasn't that in the news recently? Like it was solved or something?"

The other three all laugh, and Rachel looks up at Hunter waiting for an explanation.

He softly explains it to her. "McCall and I solved the case." She continues looking at him not understanding. "It was our case. Nearly a year ago, we solved it."

"Really? Wow! That murder is famous. I remember hearing about it even when I was a kid," Rachel exclaims.

McCall watches as Rachel's expression turns from confusion to admiration. It warms her heart that Hunter gets to look like a hero in front of his new girlfriend.

Mitch continues with the story. "We all heard about it when we were kids, she was killed in 1947. Anyway, I teach a senior-level course on local history and every year I do a fun lecture on urban legends. It's all ghost stories and unsolved mysteries — and a large part of my lecture has always been centered on the Black Dahlia murder. So when I was preparing for this year's lecture, I called up police headquarters and asked for the detective on the case, hoping I could get more information than what had been in the newspapers. I was directed to Dee Dee, and she was so kind to meet me for coffee. And, well, here we are. Five months later. And I thank God every day that the desk sergeant directed my call to Dee Dee instead of Rick."

"Otherwise, I'd be here with Mitch as my date," Hunter deadpans, and McCall wrinkles her nose at the mental image.

"Sorry, man, you're not my type." Mitch is laughing so hard his words are barely comprehensible.

"Oh, too bad. Then I guess it's best it worked out how it did," Hunter says, pulling Rachel into his side.

"So how about you two?" Mitch asks the happy couple in front of him. "Dee Dee said you guys met at a bar?"

"Oh, yeah, well, I was there on surveillance," Hunter responds. "I was following a suspect, trying to lay low."

"As low as he can anyway," McCall interjects with a giggle.

Hunter sneers at her before getting back to his story. "And this really pretty, but really annoying woman keeps trying to come on to me. She's asking me all these questions and buys me a drink, then gets mad because I'm not drinking it. I'm trying to be as nice as I can, but I'm on duty, right?"

"I cannot figure out why this guy is being so rude!" Rachel cuts in. With a big smile on her face she begins her side of the story. "I'm there with a few friends and suddenly realize this gorgeous man is sitting next to me, but no matter what I do he just won't loosen up. So it became my mission to get this guy to relax a little."

"But I'm trying earnestly to figure out who my suspect is talking to in the back of the bar. I look away to say something to her, and when I look back the suspect is gone. I'd lost him. I run out the back trying to find him, but it's useless and I am pissed as hell. I march back into that bar to tell her off. I really just want to yell at someone, you know. But when I get there, she has a Coke waiting for me and apologizes for buying me whisky when I clearly don't drink." Hunter turns his head to look down at Rachel. "It was just so nice, and she was just so damn cute I couldn't stay mad."

"He asked for my number and took me out to dinner the next night."

Dinner progresses with wine, chicken marsala and chocolate chip cheesecake for dessert. It is rare for Hunter to watch McCall in full hostess mode. The ultra-feminine, sophisticated lady across the table from him is a far cry from the hardened, detached woman he had asked to be his partner many years ago. Back then she seemed fearless with a string of love-sick men in her wake, and he believed he had found the female version of himself. He had known her by reputation alone and had no idea at the time that all of this was nothing more than a defense mechanism — she was still struggling with her husband's death just a few years before. As time passed, or maybe as he got to know her better, she slowly softened. Her laughs became more genuine; her smile grew heartwarming; her demeanor became more engaging, her heart got bigger. By all accounts from her huge array of friends, today's McCall is the real McCall. Men are few and far between these days, and Mitch has latest the longest of any of them.

Mitch is just polishing off the last of the wine as McCall serves each of them slices of cheesecake and cups of coffee. "So Mitch just heard that his most recent manuscript is going to be published," McCall announces to the dinner guests with a proud smile.

He blushes as he elaborates. "I wrote a fiction piece about the history of the US-Mexico relationship along the California border. It's being published," He says with a shrug, as if it's no big deal.

"Congratulations!" Hunter exclaims, holding his coffee cup up in cheers.

"Wow, that's so exciting!" exclaims Rachel. "Do you just love history? Is that why you decided to teach it?"

"I never really had a desire to teach, per se. Academia was an excuse to read and write and discuss history and get paid while doing it. Teaching was the penance. But it turns out I really love the teaching part, and the writing has become more like a hobby." He takes a bite of cheesecake, before asking Rachel, "How did you get into gymnastics?"

"I grew up in the gym, I've always been a gymnast — my dream in high school was to go to the Olympics and be the next Nadia Comaneci." Rachel laughs at herself for the naiveté of the thought. "Instead, I got a spot on the cheerleading squad at UC Davis. But it turns out college is, like, not for me, so I dropped out and talked my gym into hiring me to coach a few classes. Now I'm one of the managers."

McCall watches Hunter as he's watching Rachel. His facial expressions are all happiness, he's smiling and laughing, teasing and talkative. But his body language is rigid and controlled, and she wonders if it's an attempt to hide a buzz or something else altogether. His smile does not quite meet his eyes - there's a sadness in the them that she cannot figure out.

"Do you compete?" McCall asks Rachel.

"I did until about a year ago. I have a wrist injury that doesn't want to go away. So I decided to focus on coaching my kids. It is so much fun to coach these young girls and then watch them excel at the meets. They are so proud of themselves, and I had something to do with that." A tiny squeak escapes as her face lights up talking about her pupils.

"She's still really good," Hunter says.

McCall laughs to herself. _Oh I'm sure she is….and not just in the gym_.

Hunter excuses himself from the table and replenishes his scotch; the rest start clearing the table and putting away the food, deep in conversation as they do. That's why it takes a few minutes before McCall realizes that Hunter has wondered off.

"Hey, everything okay?" she asks, placing her hand lightly on his arm as she walks up behind him.

"I don't remember ever seeing this picture before," he responds.

She follows his gaze to a framed photograph of the two of them on a bookshelf. They had been partners about a year and a half when it was taken at his sister's wedding. His date had come down with the flu that morning, and he had called McCall desperately asking her to accompany him. It was the first time she had met his immediate family, and despite her not being a real "date," they had welcomed her with open arms.

"I found it while unpacking. Your sister mailed it to me a long time ago. It's a good picture."

"We are so young," Hunter says wistfully.

"Mmm, a lot has happened since then."

He laughs and looks down at her. "Yeah. It sure has."

"Hey, are you sure you're okay? I can drive you and Rachel home if…"

"No, I'm fine. Really."

"You've had a little bit to drink…"

"I said I'm fine."

McCall studies his face for a second, making sure she believes him, before letting the subject rest. "I like her. I like her a lot."

"Me, too," he says with a smile and glances over at Rachel helping Mitch carry more dishes to the kitchen.

After the goodbyes have been said, and Hunter and Rachel have gone, McCall sets about washing the dishes.

"Holy crap that Rachel is young," Mitch says, walking in the door after taking out the trash.

"Hmmm?" McCall stops mid-scrubbing and looks up at him. "Oh, yeah, she's younger than I expected, too. But, you know, the older we get the smaller the pool of single attractive women gets."

"You're making excuses for him."

"I'm not making excuses. She's young, but she is a grown adult woman. If she wants to date a forty-two-year-old man that is her business. Personally, I think she's great. And she seems to really like him. Hey…did Hunter seem strange to you tonight?"

"Stranger than normal?"

She closes her eyes and audibly sighs in aggravation. "Mitch."

"Sorry," he replies, holding his hands up in surrender. "No, I thought he seemed relaxed. In a good mood."

"That's the thing. He refilled his glass twice."

"You counted?"

"Yes, I counted."

"You have that bottle specifically for him. And he drank some of it tonight. I don't understand what the problem is."

"I have had that bottle of scotch for three years…and it's still more than two-thirds full. I have never seen him have more than one drink, but tonight he had three scotches and a glass of wine."

Mitch looks straight at her, visibly frustrated. McCall is frustrated in return. "Look, we are both still alive today because we are able to notice the nuances, to read each other's simplest gestures. It's not something I can just turn off at the end of the day."

He walks over to McCall and stands beside her, wrapping his arm around her waist and hugging her to his side. "You're obviously concerned. Why don't you just talk to him?"

Turning to face him and wrapping her arms around him return, she replies with a frown, "I tried."

"Then that's all you can do." He kisses her forehead. "Now I think it's time we stop talking about him." He kisses her cheek. "Besides, he has a hot twenty-something to worry about him. And I'm sure she's worrying plenty by now." McCall makes a sound of objection. Mitch shushes her by brushing his lips against hers. "But I have an even hotter thirty-something and I could use a little worrying myself."

"Mmmm, yes, I think you could," she replies, and all thoughts of Hunter leave her head.

"Yes…so how about you leave these dishes…" But before Mitch can finish, McCall takes his hand and leads him out of the kitchen.

..._to be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The autopsy reports on the three victims indicated that they were killed in various ways — collapsed lung, head trauma, cardiac arrest — but all were caused by a large, heavy object falling on them. They all, also, had large quantities of cocaine in their systems. Within the first few days of the investigation, all three of their vehicles had been located, at each of their respective residences. Roommates had been questioned and the residences searched. Two items of note during the searches were that no keys were found for any of the vehicles, nor were any illegal drugs. Skip's roommate claimed that Skip left their apartment that afternoon in his car for a fraternity event, but noticed the car outside of their apartment the next morning. He also indicated that Skip had been doing a great deal of drugs since pledging the fraternity. Skip had been trying to persuade him go to the frat parties with him because the "drugs were plentiful." Kevin's girlfriend felt that there was a substantial amount of hazing going on with the pledges, but said that Kevin always denied it. His explanations for his various bruises and aches and pains, in her opinion, did not make sense.

"Hey, good morning," McCall says, walking up to her desk and setting down her things.

"Morning," replies Hunter without looking up. He is hunched over with his elbows on his desk and his forehead resting on his fingertips.

"Whatcha looking over?"

He takes a moment, chewing slowly on a toothpick, before sighing and sitting back in his chair. "Fingerprints from the victims' cars came back with nothing. _But _that blue Suburban in the frat house parking lot is registered to our good friend Mr. Levi Jenson." He hands the file to her across their desks.

She quickly peruses them, and Hunter waits a few seconds before continuing. "Thanks again for dinner the other night."

"Thanks for coming. I know you wanted to wiggle your way out of it," McCall says and peers at him with a grin. "I hope Rachel had fun."

"By the way she was talking about you on the way home you'd think you two were best pals."

She laughs, "That must have been hard for you."

"Yeah, terrible," Hunter says as McCall smiles at him. "Ready to go wake up some frat boys skipping their Monday morning classes?"

"I'm ready."

They are quiet most of the way across town, back to the UCLA campus, both lost in thought, going back over the details of the case and what they hope to accomplish by questioning the fraternity members again.

"So far it appears that none of the men were regular drug users until becoming involved with this fraternity. I always thought alcohol was the frat boy vice of choice," McCall says, breaking the silence.

"Hasn't drug use always been rampant on college campuses?"

"Yeah, I guess. I saw plenty with the musicians I ran around with."

Hunter glances over at her, eyebrows raised. "You do any experimenting? Back in your wild and crazy college years?" he asks, amusement in his voice.

"Uh no. Never. I dated a bassist for a short time. A really nice guy, really good looking, but the band couldn't seem to perform without being high. I got tired of it real fast and dumped him. Shame, too, he was really talented." She regards Hunter for a second. Thinking she knows the answer already, she asks him anyway, "You?"

"Yep. Once."

"What?!" McCall's eyes go wide as she's shocked by his answer. "No, you didn't. Really?"

"Really. I was a couple months into the academy. Had come home from the war and went straight into the academy as soon as they let me, but I was really struggling, you know, dealing with just being home for the war. One Saturday night a bunch of my Marine buddies and I were hanging around drinking. There were some girls there, too, of course. I'd probably already had a few too many when someone brought out some drugs. To this day I still don't know what it was, but at the time I didn't care. I just….well, I just wanted something to take away all the stuff in my head. I remember taking the drug and then nothing else until I woke up the next morning…on my back, on the floor, with one of those girls…well, let's just say she was going for a little ride."

"Oh my God! Hunter!" McCall gasps as she covers her mouth with her hands. She starts to laugh at his bluntness, until she realizes that Hunter is not laughing. His jaw is rigid with anger.

"Her name was Libby. She called me a few weeks later to tell me she was pregnant."

"Hunter! What did you do?"

"I was furious. Told her it was her problem to deal with." He stops talking, lost in thought.

"What happened after that?"

"I couldn't stop thinking about it. I was still furious, but I couldn't turn my back on my kid — if it was really my kid. So I called her up after a month or so to see how she was doing. She had had an abortion."

"Why have you never told me this before?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "It never came up. Anyway, it scared the crap out of me. I didn't as much as have a beer for at least ten years after that, and I have never been drunk, or high, again."

She immediately recalls the amount of scotch he drank at her house Saturday night, and the way he swayed just slightly when he stood up after dinner, but decides to leave it alone. She had already questioned him once.

"And you didn't give up women, as well?"

"The point, McCall, is control. Never. Lose. Control."

Yes, she knew the point. _If you looked up "control" in the dictionary you would find a picture of Hunter_, she thinks to herself. She had always taken this trait as Hunter just being Hunter. It had never occurred to her that there was a story behind it.

She is still looking at him, trying to fit this new piece into the man she knew, when she realizes the car has stopped and Hunter is getting out of it. Quickly regaining her composure, she jogs up behind him.

"No baby was born," he says, turning his head to the side as she approaches so that she can hear him.

"What?"

"I checked birth records. She did not have a baby. At least not then."

She nearly jumps when the heavy, walnut inlaid door of the fraternity house opens, lost in thought over Hunter's last statement. Only Hunter would make sure that woman was telling the truth, that he had no lose ends that would come looking for him some day in the future.

"Sergeants Hunter and McCall, we would like to speak with Jonathon," Hunter says, showing the man at the door his ID and badge. McCall quickly does the same.

The chubby-faced man, wearing his fraternity letters big and bold across the chest of his oversized sweatshirt, his LA Lakers baseball cap backwards on his head, stands completely still. Open-mouthed, he seems to be searching for the proper words for decades. Finally, he speaks, "Jonathon who?"

"Jonathon Broken Arm, that's Jonathon who," Hunter nearly growls at him in frustration. "He was here last week. Broke his arm the same night your other three brothers were being murdered. I think you probably know who I'm referring to."

McCall has to stifle a laugh at the fear evident in the man's eyes, but Hunter's face remains cold as ice as his intimidation continues.

The man eventually nods in assent. "I'll go, I'll go find him," he squeaks and starts to close the front door. Hunter places his palm on the door preventing its closure.

"We will wait inside. If you don't mind." Hunter turns sideways a fraction to allow McCall to enter the house ahead of him.

When Jonathon finally emerges, it's apparent that he has just rolled out of bed. With his hair flat on one side and sticking up on the other, along with a wrinkled t-shirt, he looks no better than he did at their previous meeting.

"Good morning, Jonathon. Sorry to pull you out of bed," Hunter says a bit too loudly, causing the sleepy and possibly hung-over man to cringe. "Is there somewhere we can talk privately?"

"Yeah, um, this way. But why do you want to talk to me?"

"We just want to ask you a few questions. That's all," McCall says with a smile, trying to ease Jonathon's anxiety, as he leads them into what appears to be a study room. One wall is lined with bookshelves containing several encyclopedia sets, worn textbooks and several year's worth of old _National Geographics_ and _Time Magazines_. There is a library-style table in the center with six chairs around it and framed maps hanging on the walls. The neatness of the room gives the impression that it is rarely used.

Everybody takes a seat around the library table before McCall starts asking questions. "You live here in the fraternity house?"

"Yes," Jonathon replies, his posture stiff. McCall can hear the faint shuffling of his flip-flop against the floor as his leg nervously bounces up and down.

"Is that normal to move in before becoming a member?"

"I don't know. I'm rooming with my older brother. He's been in the fraternity for three years already. It's a pretty sure thing that I will be initiated next week."

"Initiation is next week? Is there any hazing going on with the pledges?"

"Oh, well, you know, just a little. It's normal stuff." Jonathon laughs apprehensively, as if he's trying to denote joviality.

"This normal stuff? Is that how you broke your arm?"

"What? No." Again, he responds with nervous laughter.

"So how did you break it?" Hunter asks.

"I, uh, I fell. I fell down the stairs," Jonathon answers, but this time he's looking at the table.

"Here in the house? You fell down the stairs here, but it wasn't a hazing accident?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"Were you high?" McCall asks, soothingly, like she's offering him an excuse for falling.

Jonathon's leg suddenly stops bouncing. "I don't do drugs. No drugs."

"Do you ever see drugs around the house? A little pot? A little coke?" asks Hunter.

"No drugs."

"See, Travis, Kevin, Skip, they were all high on cocaine when they died. We think they got it from someone in the fraternity."

"I can't help you. Like I said, I don't do drugs."

"Your brother? He doesn't do drugs either?"

"No," Jonathon states, more authoritatively than necessary.

They speak to three more fraternity members, acquiring the same amount of information they got from Jonathon. Nothing.

XXXXX

It is later than normal when McCall gets home that evening. The late September sun is just a sliver of auburn light in the horizon. She and Hunter both are getting frustrated with the lack of progress on their case. It feels as though they are on the tip of something substantial, but they just have not been able to find that break to open it up. She's so lost in thought when she pulls into her driveway that she does not even notice Mitch's car parked on the street.

She's startled when she opens her back door, finally taking in her surroundings when faint piano music, flickering candlelight and the fresh scent of cut flowers fill her senses. Bouquets of pink dahlias surround her – on the kitchen island, the fireplace mantel, the coffee table, the small breakfast table in front of the windows. Various sizes of white candles are scattered around the room.

Mitch slowly rises out of one of the wing-backed chairs near the bookshelves and crosses the shadowy room. McCall laughs when she sees him, her eyes wide in wonder and a nervous smile on her lips.

"What is all this?!" she asks, her voice creaking in amazement.

"A surprise," Mitch muses as he leans down to kiss her.

"I'm definitely surprised!"

"I had all this planned for Saturday night….but you made other plans." Mitch winks at her, teasing.

"I had no idea!"

A conspiratorial grin stretches across his face. "I know." Mitch gives her another light kiss as he slides her purse strap off her shoulder, setting it aside on the table. She watches him patiently, trying desperately to quell her excitement. There really can be only one explanation for this overly dramatic and romantic gesture.

Taking her hands in his, he looks down at her a moment and starts to laugh nervously. "I had this whole speech planned that I've been rehearsing for weeks. And now? I can't remember any of it."

They laugh together, McCall's expression turning tender as she watches Mitch fumble for the right words. She can feel his quick pulse in his hands and she gives them a gentle squeeze in encouragement.

Taking a deep breath, he continues, "I love you and I want to live the rest of my life with you. I was telling the truth when I said I thank God everyday for leading me to you. I want to marry you, have a family with you." He gently lowers himself to one knee, clutching her hands tighter as he does. "Dee Dee, will you marry me?"

She pulls her hands out his grasp, placing them on either side of his face. Her thumbs gently caress his cheeks, as tears begin to well up in her eyes she whispers, "I love you, too."

"So is that a yes? Please tell me that's a yes."

She nods her head quickly, emotion clogging her throat. "Yes. YES!"

..._to be continued..._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Let me guess…you're thinking about how you're going to tell Rick," says Mitch, walking into the living room and finding McCall curled up on the sofa. Her legs are tucked underneath her pink satin robe, her hands wrapped around a coffee cup and her new engagement ring sparkling in the soft morning light from the window behind her.

"Mmmm? Rick? Oh, no...he's going to be happy," she says with a smile. What she was thinking about was the simple quarter-carat solitaire she and Steve had picked out together so many years ago. It was all he could afford at the time, but she didn't care. She was twenty years old and madly in love. All she cared about was being Steve's wife — a diamond on her finger was just a formality. It almost seems like all that happened to a different person. Maybe it did. This time, the diamond is much larger, with smaller diamonds surrounding it and even more diamonds set in the band. It's beautiful, and almost gaudy. Mitch had picked it out himself — this is what he thought she would like.

With a sigh, she reaches out for Mitch's hand. "Hunter has always known this day would come. He wants me to happy, I can promise you that."

Mitch nods assent and sits down beside her.

"Besides, I don't have to leave my job right away, right? When…I guess if…a baby comes along, we can address it then."

"True. But, I have a feeling that even when you are no longer his partner, he's still going to call in the middle of the night. Just because."

"You're probably right about that," she says laughing.

"Well, as long as you are in my bed and not his I guess I'm okay with that," Mitch teases and nuzzles her cheek.

Pulling herself into his lap, she playfully kisses him. "That will not be a problem." The kissing continues, soft and fun at first, but going further than she had planned, and when his hands slide inside her robe she pulls away. Breathless, she presses her face against his cheek. "I have to get ready for work."

Mitch grunts in aggravation. "Damn work." But he pulls his hands out of her robe and wraps them around her middle for a hug.

As McCall slowly stands up, he asks, "So how do you plan to tell Rick?"

"I don't know yet, but he's out the next two days so I have time to think about it."

"He's actually taking a vacation?"

"No, it's personal leave." She continues walking toward her bedroom, not giving Mitch a chance to ask more questions. She doesn't know why Hunter is taking two days off from work; he certainly had not offered her an explanation. She's hoping Hunter's silence has something to do with Rachel and his preference to keep his relationships private, but her intuition tells her it's not.

XXXXX

Truth be told, she is glad that Hunter is not across the desk from her today. Her mind keeps wondering to Mitch's proposal the night before, the effort he put into creating the atmosphere with the music and the candles and the dahlias. Oh, the dahlias. It make her smile every time she thinks about it. Their relationship began over a discussion of the Black Dahlia, and he had decorated her house with pink ones. When she asked him why pink, he joked, "Well, black ones would have been creepy."

They had talked and planned and dreamed together all evening. Mitch had picked up lasagna and cannolis from her favorite restaurant, and they ate it amongst the candlelight. It was easily the most romantic night of her life.

As Mitch rattled on about how excited his family is going to be, McCall was fantasizing about hosting barbeques for his students, large family dinners at Christmas and how cute their kids are going to be. Neither one of them could stop smiling. It was his smile that first attracted her to him. He is not the best-looking man she's ever dated, but his smile is infectious and his easygoing personality is comforting. Most importantly, he has fully accepted Hunter as an integral part of her life, even if he doesn't entirely like the man himself. At least he tries, and has never shown any jealousy — that alone speaks volumes to McCall's heart.

They talked about a spring wedding, probably something small and intimate. It will be a second marriage for both of them. Mitch's first marriage ended shortly after he had accepted an assistant professorship at UCLA. His ex-wife had her own career in Chicago — Mitch's hometown – and had refused to make the move with him. They had tried a long-distance relationship for a while, but it did not work out.

"Excuse me, um, Sergeant McCall?" A timid, soft voice interrupts McCall's reverie. She looks up to find a young woman anxiously standing next to her desk, waiting for her to respond.

"Yes, sorry, yes, I'm Sergeant McCall," McCall says, slightly embarrassed that she has been caught daydreaming. "Can I help you?"

"The man at the desk," the young woman turns and points to the desk sergeant, "he said that I should talk to you about the three UCLA fraternity guys that were killed?"

"Uh, yes, I am the detective working on that case."

"I am, I mean, I was," she lets out a shaky breath, "I'm Lisa Brown, Jonathon Cates' girlfriend. He said you talked to him yesterday. I found your card in his room this morning." She pauses, waiting for a signal from McCall to continue. "I think his broken arm has something to do with those deaths."

"Please take a seat, Lisa. Now, what makes you say that?"

"When I got to the hospital that night, he was high. Jonathon has always been a strict no drugs kind of guy, you know, so I couldn't believe it. And it wasn't painkillers, either. He was freaking out, like he was scared of everyone. He kept trying to hide from people and couldn't sit still. He had to be strapped to the bed so that the doctor could put the cast on. Several of his brothers were there, and I kept asking them what was wrong with him, but no one would answer me. They all seemed scared, like they didn't know what to do." Lisa pauses for a moment, tucking her wavy blond hair behind her ears. "When I asked Jonathon about it the next morning he got really upset with me. Told me some story about tripping on a curb and falling down."

"Wait, hold on just a minute…," McCall says, shuffling through her reports until she finds the one from Jonathon's interview the day before. She quickly reads through it, looking for the story he had told her and Hunter. _The stories do not match, _she notes to herself_._ "Ok, sorry about that, please continue."

"A couple of days later, Jonathon came over to my apartment upset. He finally admitted that he had been snorting coke that night — that he had been forced to by Levi."

"Levi?"

"I don't know his last name. He's an officer in the fraternity, I think, or something like that. Everybody knows him. He drives that huge Suburban that we all joke about it being his 'drug-mobile.' Groups of people are always coming and going from it during parties." Lisa looks down at her hands, wringing them in her lap. "I guess it's not really a joke anymore."

"Did Jonathon say anything else to you, about that night?"

"No, he's scared, though. He won't talk to me, but I know he's scared of something."

"Ok, thank you, Lisa, for the information," McCall says.

XXXXX

"Welcome back," McCall says as she sees Hunter walking toward their desks. She's been sitting at her typewriter for two hours already this morning, and has two broken nails to show for it. It's a relief to see his lanky figure enter the squad room again; she was starting to get lonely.

Hitting return on the keyboard, she notices her bare ring finger before turning to face Hunter. "Why are you taking it off?" Mitch had asked her that morning as she placed the sparkling diamond in her jewelry box. She hadn't worn it to work yet. "It doesn't exactly say tough cop," she had responded with a laugh. "It just doesn't seem like something I should be showing off in my line of work. I will wear the wedding band, though, I promise."

"Solve any cases while I was gone?" Hunter asks. He pulls the sports section of the newspaper out of his jacket pocket and sets it on his desk, just like he does every morning.

"As a matter of fact I did," she says with an arrogant smile.

"No kidding?"

Usually, she would have called him — checked in with him while he was gone, caught him up on what was going on there. But she didn't this time. Something about the way he left work Monday evening — distant, purposefully avoiding conversation. She felt like he was trying to get away before she started asking questions. "I can't actually take any credit. It kind of all fell into my lap."

"Well, are you going to tell me or do I have to guess?"

"Jonathon Broken Arm's girlfriend came to see me — with enough information to finally get a search warrant for Levi Jenson's Suburban, where we found blood that matched two of the victims. So we arrested Levi, Jonathon and four other fraternity members. Ten minutes into interrogation and Jonathon cracked like Humpty Dumpty. And you won't believe this part. Levi's father owns a metal pipe distribution company. The pledges had been taken to his warehouse for what they called a 'trust the brotherhood' exercise. The pledges were told to lay down on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, and four other members lifted a three-foot wide by twenty-five-foot long cast iron pipe over them. You can guess what happened — the pipe fell. Travis, Kevin, Skip, Jonathon and one other, who has a shattered foot, didn't get out of the way in time. You know, I'm surprised you didn't see this in the news last night. The university is scrambling with all the publicity. They are shutting down the fraternity and threatening sanctions on the whole Greek system. It's quite a mess. And I haven't had more than a few hours sleep the past two nights."

"Congratulations. It sounds like quite the hazing bust. Let me buy you a drink tonight to celebrate."

"Hmm, make that ice cream instead and I'm in. I have something I need to talk to you about, anyway."

_...to be continued..._


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

They drive separate cars to the park — the park that had become their favorite getaway place to talk. Sometimes they go there for lunch, a chance to get some fresh air and remind themselves that not all children end up victims of their parents' homicidal rage. Sometimes they go after work, a chance to discuss their outrageous theories on their current cases without eavesdropping and judgments from their coworkers. Sometimes they go on the weekends, a chance to just be friends and hang out. They like to sit on the benches near the playground, where the squeals and laughter of the children drown out everything else around them.

It's a warm September evening, the light wispy clouds in the distance creating a kaleidoscope of colors as the sun hangs low over the horizon. Hunter is already standing at the snack counter, a small metal shack of a building on the opposite side of the playground. His back is to her as she walks up to him, his arms folded across his chest as he peruses the chalkboard menu. He looks like a statue, standing there solid and still, as playful children run around him. Without even acknowledging her approach, he steps up to the counter and tells the teenage boy behind the register his order. "Two cones, one rocky road and one banana."

"I will never understand why you insist on ruining dessert with fruit," McCall says as she scrunches her nose.

"I will never understand your aversion to anything healthy."

"Touché." She accepts her ice cream cone from him and leads the way to their bench. They sit in silence for a moment, enjoying their ice cream.

"Thanks for holding down the fort while I was gone."

He brought it up, so she decides to seize the opportunity. "What were you doing with your time off?"

He takes a deep breath, and two more bites of his ice cream, before looking at her. They are sitting close enough that the elbows of their suit jackets just barely brush each other. McCall's focus is on a cute little girl pumping her legs on the swings, her pink ruffled pants going back and forth like a pendulum. She feels his eyes watching the side of her face, but to turn her head up towards his would be awkward. They would be nearly nose-to-nose. So she continues eating her ice cream and watching the swinging preschooler.

"I had a doctor's appointment."

_I had a doctor's appointment. _The words keep repeating themselves in her head as she waits for him to say more. He doesn't. She scoots over a fraction so that she can finally meet his gaze. "That's it? A doctor's appointment?"

"Really, I guess it was more of a doctor consultation. I've had several doctor's appointments lately, this time the doctor finally told me what's wrong."

"What's wrong? I don't...?"

"I have cancer."

He continues to watch her, letting his confession soak in. As she begins shaking her head back and forth, like she's trying to get the word out of her head, he starts nodding in acceptance.

"Lymphoma."

He watches her face as a range of emotions flash in her eyes and her cheeks pale. Several times she starts to say something, and then stops.

Looking down at the ice cream in her hand, the idea of taking one more bite making her stomach tighten in knots, she mumbles, "I feel sick," and quickly dumps the melting confection in the trash. She returns to the bench as quickly as she left it. Now with nothing to occupy her hands, she tucks her hair behind her ears and then brushes the ends off her shoulders. "What…I, uh, how…."

He saves her from trying to find the right question, because he knows, there isn't a right question. He knows she's feeling something akin to what he felt in the oncologist's office two days before. A million questions running through his head, unable to decipher which one to ask first, so they all get jumbled up in an incomprehensible mess.

"I haven't been feeling well for several weeks. Not sick, just not…normal. So I went to the doctor, one test turned into two tests and the next thing I know I'm getting a full-body CTscan and a bone-marrow biopsy."

Her eyes widen, and he prepares himself for what's next. "Why haven't you told me?!"

He knew she was going to be hurt for being left out. But if she had known, she would have pushed her way into those procedures with him and there are just some things he needs to do alone. "Because, what if it turned out to be nothing. It could have been nothing, and then you would have worried for nothing."

"But it isn't nothing."

"No, it isn't. The oncologist says it's Stage two, which means it's treatable with a high rate of success. Lookit, I'm going to be okay. All things considered, it's not all that bad."

"Stage two Lymphoma. What does that mean, exactly?"

"It means that the cancer has spread, some, but we caught it early. My oncologist is optimistic that one round of chemo is all I will need."

"Chemo…," McCall whispers, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry you have go through this."

"Yeah." He nods, then shrugs. "It's going to be okay. I'm healthy, strong."

He's saying the words, but she picks up the doubt in his voice and wonders whom he's trying to convince. She reaches over and takes his hand between hers, entwining their fingers. She knows her hands are shaking, but she needs to touch him, to tell him how much she cares in a way that her words seem to be failing.

"When did all this happen? All these tests?" she asks.

"Here and there. That root canal I had done last week…"

Closing her eyes and letting out a resigned sigh, she says, "It wasn't a root canal."

"No. I'm sorry. I didn't want to worry anyone. But I knew, this week, that it was not going to be good news. I just needed some time to come to grips with it before I could be strong for everyone else."

"You don't have to be strong for me," McCall says, but he just continues looking at her. "You don't have to go through any of this alone, you know."

"I know," he says as he puts his arm around her and squeezes. "I saw Mom yesterday. Spent the day with her."

"Your poor mom. How did she take the news?"

"About how you'd expect. She cried. I suspect my answering machine is already full of messages from Marie. I told Mom she could tell her tonight — I wanted to make sure she didn't call the station before I had a chance to tell you."

"You know your sister is probably filling up my answering machine, too."

He laughs a little. He had fought McCall and Marie's friendship for years, before he finally relented to the inevitable. Like a child, he had made McCall vow to be his friend first.

_"What do want me to do? Cross my heart and hope to die that you will know my secrets before she does?" McCall had said, clearly irritated with him._

_"Just promise me that you two won't squeeze me out. You're my partner, I'm supposed to know you better than anyone else."_

_"I spend nine hours a day with you five days a week, I barely get a potty-break without you following me into the lady's room. I assure you that secures your position in the top spot."_

_"Promise you won't…talk…about me, that you won't gang up on me. I need you to be my partner, not a second sister."_

_"When have I ever not backed you up, completely and without hesitation? That won't change just because I go shoe shopping with your sister." _

"How's Rachel taking this?" McCall asks.

He shifts uncomfortably and removes his arm from around her shoulders. "I, uh, I broke things off with Rachel."

"What! Why?"

"I can't do it. I can't fight this and foster a new relationship at the same time."

"But you really like her. Why throw it away?"

"She's young. What would she want nursing an old sick man like me?" He shakes his head in confirmation. "It's not fair to her."

"You don't think you should let her make that decision for herself?"

"And put her in a situation of dumping the guy with cancer? No, this is best. She will move on — quickly I'm sure."

"But she cares about you. She wants to be with you."

"I just don't have it in me right now to try to make a relationship work," Hunter says, becoming aggravated, and for the first time she sees palpable fear in his expression. He may be trying to put up a brave front for her, but deep down he's more frightened than she has ever seen him before. She reaches her arms around him for a hug. He's hesitant at first, but then he holds on to her for dear life.

McCall wipes away the tears from her cheeks as she pulls away from him. "What can I do to help? What do you need?"

"For starters, no crying."

"Ha, well, I can't guarantee that one," she says and sniffles.

"There's nothing. Really. I start chemo in two weeks. I'm not really sure what to expect, but it shouldn't be too much of a burden on you."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know it's not, but I don't want you to worry about having to carry the load. I'll keep up. Same as always."

"I'm here, always, if you need to talk…or not talk." She doesn't need to say this, this is how it always is between them, but he understands her need to say it all the same.

It's after she has already left, walked away on wobbly knees, heading to her car for most likely a very long cry, that he remembers she had said something about needing to talk to him.

..._to be continued..._


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: To everyone that has reviewed and commented on this story, thank you so much! A special thank you to all the Guests and Readers and everyone I can't send a personal thank you. **

Chapter 6

"Hello?"

"Where are you? I thought you were coming over," Mitch says over the phone, aggravation in his voice.

McCall looks around her dark living room, unable to see anything but the time glowing on the VCR. 9:17pm. _When had it gotten so dark? _She doesn't remember it being dark when she walked into her house and sat down in the nearest chair. _Slumped_ is probably a more appropriate description, she had _slumped_ into the chair with her purse strap still on her shoulder and her car keys still in her hands.

_I have cancer._

_Lymphoma._

From the moment she heard those words time has ceased to exist.

"Oh…yeah…sorry. I just…uh…I just lost track of time."

"Is everything okay?"

_No, everything is not okay. _But she can't say the words. Saying the words makes them real. Telling Mitch means she has to acknowledge them, face them, discuss them, and she doesn't have the energy for any of that. The tears she had shed in her car, parked in the McDonald's parking lot two blocks from the park so that Hunter wouldn't see her, had finally dried. She feared their return if she told Mitch.

"Yeah, I'm okay." _Lie._

"Are you sure? You don't sound okay. Rick didn't get upset about our engagement, did he?"

"No, no, nothing like that." She pauses for a moment, searching her brain for the least committal comment. "It's just been a crazy week, you know. I guess I'm more tired than I thought."

"So how did he take the news?"

"Fine. You know, he was fine." _Why am I lying to him? _The truth is that she had forgotten.

_I have cancer._

_Lymphoma._

She had forgotten about their engagement. She had forgotten about their plans tonight. She had forgotten about Mitch.

"What did he say about being your 'man of honor'? Did he tell you you're crazy like I said he would?" Mitch chuckles as he asks.

McCall feels anger begin to bubble up. How dare he mock her right now? How dare he mock her relationship with Hunter?

"I haven't asked yet," she hisses. "Listen, I really am tired. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Wait! Don't hang up! I'll stop kidding you about the 'man of honor' thing. He's your best friend, I get it. I'll leave it alone. You can choose whomever you want to stand up with you. Of course you can."

McCall can hear the sincerity in his voice and mentally chastises herself. _What am I doing? I'm lying to him, and he's the one apologizing._

Taking a deep breath, she wills herself to relax. "I…uh…again, I'm sorry about tonight. I'll make it up to you tomorrow."

XXXXX

The chemotherapy treatment center smells like industrial detergent and latex gloves. There's an obvious attempt at tranquility, with soothing music piped throughout the room, large plush recliners and potted plants haphazardly arranged along the far wall and in each corner. He supposes the soft green walls and framed photographs of oceans and forests hanging from them are meant to be calming, but all Hunter sees is that someone couldn't decide which nature theme to use. The picture directly opposite his assigned recliner is a beach scene — sandy footprints leading to the white foaming edge of the wave. If he wanted a beach view he could be lounging in his bed at home instead of staring at the static print with a giant needle stuck in his arm and the annoying pumping resonance of the IV. The picture mocks him. You can try to make your life your own, but in the end you aren't really the one calling the shots.

It feels like he has been inside this torture chamber deceptively called a treatment center for an eternity. He had been told to expect this to be a long day, but he didn't realize just how much of it was going to be sitting and waiting. The actual chemotherapy has finally begun, and now there is more sitting and waiting.

McCall had wanted to come with him today. Maybe he should have let her. She would be bored to tears, but she would also have been a great distraction. They hadn't spoken much over the two weeks since he had told her. He preferred things to be business as usual, and she seemed to not know how to bring it up. The problem is, when he is home at night all alone his mind starts to wonder. He misses Rachel without question, but the relationship was new and he's convinced himself that he misses what might have been more than anything else. But he can't admit this to McCall — she'd give him a big fat "I told you so."

He had wanted to talk to McCall last night, but after spending most of the day trying to convince her that he didn't need her handholding he just couldn't.

_"Let me come with you tomorrow, I have plenty of comp-time I can use. I can bring some magazines, kick your butt in gin rummy. I'm an expert at wasting time. If you have time to waste, I'm your gal," she had said yesterday as they were leaving the scene of their newest case. A probable suicide, but the due-diligence needed to be done all the same. _

_"You can't — you just got a new case," he countered, thankful for the excuse and thankful that it is most likely a quick close since she will be working it mostly solo._

_"Why don't you let me worry about that? Charlie would back me up, you know he would."_

_"It's my case, too, so I have to worry about it. Lookit, it's no big deal."_

_"No big deal? Hunter! It's chemo!" _

_"You really think I forgot that?" he said it more harshly than he had meant, and McCall had recoiled to the far corner of the passenger side of the car like a scolded child. He had been deflecting this conversation for hours and quite frankly he was worn out._

_He ran his hand through his hair, cursing himself for taking out his frustration on her. "I appreciate you—"_

_"It's okay," she said, holding her left hand up. _

_She didn't bring it up again. When they left the precinct together that evening, she lingered a little longer than normal in the parking lot — not actually saying anything, but he knew she was giving him an opportunity to change his mind. _

It's five 'til four in the afternoon when he finally walks out of the treatment center. The sun warms his ice-cold muscles. He had been there for eight hours, only half of them where his actual treatment. Four hours of waiting, paper work, waiting, blood tests, and more waiting, and then, four hours of poison being pumped into his bloodstream. He had expected to feel something — pain, tingling, burning, he wasn't sure what — but something. Instead, he felt fine, like it was any other day. His plan, with the assumption that he would be ill or tired, was to go home, but now home seems boring and lonely. After spending eight hours bored and lonely already, he finds himself driving to the precinct. A few hours of work, and a squad room full of familiar people, is much more appealing.

"Hey there, what are doing? Why aren't you at home?" McCall asks, approaching him. She squeezes his shoulder as she leans against the edge of his desk.

"Working."

"You should be resting."

"I've been sitting on my ass all day, and I'm not tired. So here I am. Wrap up that suicide yet?" His tone isn't rude, but it's clear that he means business.

McCall plays along, crossing her arms in front of her, but does not budge from her post. "It wasn't a suicide."

At this he sits back in his chair, really focusing on her for the first time. She looks like she's had a long day, the absence of lipstick and the fatigue in her eyes an indication that she's been pounding the pavement most of the day. "How's that?"

"Fingerprints were found on her neck. And the noose she was hanging from was hiding extensive bruising. Bruises caused by fingers, not rope. That's where I've been all afternoon — interviewing her friends."

"Find out anything useful?"

"A nasty divorce and custody battle over her son earlier this year. She got the kid, half of everything and child support. I'm having a backgrounder run on her ex."

"Good, good work."

"Listen, I was just stopping by to check my messages and clock out. I gotta get home and change. Mitch's department is hosting a gala tonight for some big shot historian. Do you need anything before I go?"

"Get outta here."

"How did it go today?" McCall's voice is almost a whisper, making their closeness suddenly feel intimate.

"It went okay. Not bad really." Hunter makes eye contact with her, willing her to believe him. "Now go. Shoo. See ya."

She manages a giggle as he nudges her hip with his elbow. "Good night," she calls out as she walks away.

XXXXX

_Whew, a full day's work done in four hours. _Hunter feels better now that he's cleared the stack of files off his desk. He had felt guilty yesterday, leaving with so much work needing to be done but he had not been able to concentrate. Now that his first round of chemo is over and he isn't feeling near as terrible as he feared, his spirits are lifted.

The parking lot is dark and quiet as he walks to his car, but it was bustling when he had arrived this afternoon and his car is parked in the very last row. Fatigue is beginning to take a grip on him. He had felt it as he was signing off on his last report; and now the gentle pounding just behind his eyes is rapidly increasing. It has been a long day, after all, and the apple and peanut butter he'd eaten at his desk for a so-called dinner is not enough sustenance.

The first wave of nausea hits him like a sucker punch to the chest, causing him to stumble into the spare tire on the back of a Jeep. Taking deep breaths and leaning against the Jeep for support, he struggles to maintain him composure. It feels like miles between him and his car, but eventually the world stops spinning and the urge to gag recedes. He finally makes it to his car and with trembling hands unlocks the door and slides himself into the driver's seat. His now sweaty clothes trapped between the seat and his body makes him shake with chills. The nausea returns and he prays he doesn't lose his dinner in the car; he sure as hell doesn't want to have to clean up the mess. After waiting for he has no idea how long for his stomach to get off this roller coaster ride, he does the only thing he knows to do.

XXXXX

McCall has been looking forward to this soiree with Mitch for weeks. She bought a new dress — a fitted, cocktail length dress made entirely of navy-colored lace and a boat-style neckline. Her hair is pinned up, showing off her shoulders and the delicate edging of the lace. Dressing up is always fun, but the way Mitch has been looking at her all night makes her heart flutter and her cheeks blush.

"Congratulations! Dee Dee, this ring is gorgeous!" gushes one of Mitch's fellow professors, an art historian who likes to wear vintage art as well as teach it. The sixty-year-woman, with oversized cat-eye glasses and an elaborate necklace showing off a collection of ivory cameo lockets, takes hold of McCall's left hand and holds it up until the diamonds catch the light just right.

"Thank you, Evelyn," McCall says with a broad smile, glancing at Mitch across the room. He's sitting at their table with several other men who appear to be in a heated debate, but she catches him watching her instead. Her heart flutters again. "We are very happy. Mitch did good, didn't he?" She has met Evelyn several times at various functions and took a liking to her immediately. Several other women in their vicinity, mostly wives of other professors and administrators, offer words of congratulations and warm wishes as well.

This is only the second time she has worn her engagement ring outside of her house since Mitch proposed nearly three weeks ago — the first time had been at dinner at her parent's house when she and Mitch told them about their big news. It feels good to show it off, to freely talk about his romantic proposal and wedding plans and happiness.

"Oh, he did very well, indeed! How is the wedding planning proceeding? Please tell me what I must do to get my name on the guest list." Evelyn squeezes McCall's hand twice before letting it go.

"Nothing to worry about, Evelyn, you and Teddy are already at the top of the list," McCall responds smiling. "So mark your calendar for the last weekend in March."

"March! How lovely!"

"Excuse me ladies." Mitch interrupts the wedding discussion and presses McCall's patent leather clutch into her abdomen. "Darling, your purse is vibrating."

_...to be continued..._


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

She can see his shadowy silhouette lying back against the driver's seat in his car, his head tilted back against the headrest, as she parks her car in the space next to his. She walks around the back of her car toward the driver's side door of his green Monaco. A sudden feeling of something wet and lukewarm seeping into the peek-toe of her navy pumps causes her to jump backward. The narrow space between their cars is pitch black, but she can take a guess of what lies between her and Hunter's car door.

_McCall, I need your help. I'm sorry. I know you're…help…please…I'm too sick._

"I need your help" was all he had to say before she was motioning to Mitch from the payphone that she needed to leave. Mitch had dropped her off in her driveway, where she immediately jumped into her car without entering her house. She is now wishing she had at least changed into more sensible clothing, but haste had been foremost on her mind.

McCall backs away, the putrid scent now confirming her suspicion, and walks around to the passenger side. She quietly taps on the window, startling Hunter. He glances at her through one eye before slowly reaching across the seat to unlock the door.

She opens the door and gently slides into the passenger seat. The air inside the sedan is warm and thick, and she has to consciously override her instinct to cover her nose against the sharp stench of sweat and vomit. Hunter doesn't make a sound as he continues to sit there perfectly still.

"Are you okay?" she asks softly. The answer is obvious, but she can't think of anything else to say.

"No."

"Do you need me to take you home or to the hospital?"

"Home." His quick, one-word answers are further indication that he is most certainly not okay.

"You got it." She looks at Hunter, and then past him to her car, developing her plan of attack. "Listen, I think the best way to do this is for you slide over here, I'll help you, and then I'll leave my car here."

A faint grunt from Hunter was her cue to take his arm and start guiding him toward her. She notices his damp shirtsleeve as she does. His hand is cold and clammy, and trembling ever so slightly, when she takes it in hers. It's a struggle getting Hunter's long legs up and over the center console and the police radio, and it takes what feels like an eternity with his slow movements. He has to stop several times to lean his head back and take deep breaths to ward off the nausea, and McCall already starts worrying about how she's going to get him into his house.

She walks back around to the driver's side, stopping to get a flashlight out of the trunk first. She inspects the mess on the ground between the cars and is just able to lean forward enough to pull the door handle. After several failed attempts to step over the mess and into the car, McCall looks around the quiet lot to verify that no one can see before pulling her fitted skirt up to her hips. She stretches her right leg across the mess and finally makes contact with the edge of the doorframe. With a little bit of a hop from her left leg she is able to grab hold of the top of the open door, using the car to balance, and pulls herself inside.

XXXXX

McCall drives as gingerly as she can to keep Hunter's nausea at bay, but they still have to pull over along the Pacific Coast Highway. Now, parked outside Hunter's beachfront condo, she stares at the flight of stairs up to his front door with dread. The moans and deep breaths she heard from him on every curve along the way give her no confidence about his ability to walk up them on his own.

She parks as close to the foot of the stairs as possible, reminiscing about the house he moved out of just a few weeks ago and how much easier this would be if only he had stayed put.

"Hey," she says softly as she places a hand gently on his shoulder, "you think you can walk up the stairs?"

"Can I just sleep here?"

"Let's give the stairs a try. You will be much more comfortable in your bed. C'mon, I'll help you."

Maneuvering Hunter's 240 pounds up to the main floor of his new contemporary condo is no small feat. Twice they have to stop as he grips her shoulders with one hand and the handrail with the other to prevent both of them from tumbling back down. Just as they reach the top of the stairs he sways backwards, and McCall has to use all her weight to pull him forward, both of them landing on their backsides on the second floor deck. She leaves him there on the floor while she unlocks the sliding-glass door.

She helps him back up to his feet, but immediately regrets it when she starts fumbling around looking for the light switch. His previous place felt almost like a second home to her, but she's only been here once. He had given her the tour a few weeks ago after they had shared a pizza, but she was by no means familiar with the place.

"Bathroom. Now." Hunter breathes the words and immediately she feels the sweat soaking through the back of his shirt where her arm is wrapped around him for support. Thank goodness she remembers the small downstairs bathroom just beyond the kitchen.

It feels almost cruel watching him suffer, hovered over the toilet in agony, but the only thing she can think of to help is to place a wet washcloth on the back of his neck. He continues to gag and moan long after his stomach is empty. Out of desperation she leaves the cramped bathroom and calls her mother for advice. Her father had battled throat cancer last year, and she hopes beyond hope that her mom can at least offer her some comforting words.

XXXXX

"What are you doing out here?" McCall asks, finding Hunter sitting on the floor in the hallway just outside the bathroom. She had been gone for just ten minutes, quickly walking to a convenience story around the corner to pick up a few things her mother had suggested would help. He had been dozing quietly against the edge of the bathtub when she left.

"I don't fit in that little bathroom. I needed to stretch out." She notes that he barely fits in the narrow hallway between the kitchen and what she thinks is a guest bedroom, but she keeps her commentary to herself.

She sits down on the floor next to him and hands him a cup. "Take a few sips of this."

"What is it?" he asks skeptically with his head still leaning back against the wall and his eyes closed.

"Kool-Aid. And Compazine," she says shaking the bottle of anti-nausea medication. "I found it in your bathroom upstairs. You need to take it as prescribed, even if you don't feel sick."

He opens one eye and spies her.

"I called my mom. She told me some things that helped Dad through his chemo last year. She said that, for whatever reason, the chemo makes water taste terrible, but you need to drink it and Kool-Aid helps the taste. So I ran over to that little food mart on the corner and got some." When he looks into the cup of yellowy water she adds softly, "Drink up. It's lemonade flavor so it won't stain, if…you know…," she says while making the gesture with her hand. "The extra sugar will be good for you, too."

He takes a few tentative sips, and leans back again awaiting the verdict on whether his stomach is going to accept it or not.

"I'm sorry you have to go through this again. I know it was tough with your dad."

"He's a lot like you, you know? With the tough-guy image —too macho to be sick. I'm finding out that he was much sicker than I ever knew — he just never wanted me to see him that way. As far as I knew everything was fine, his treatments were a breeze, and then bam he was in remission."

Slowly, and with a weak voice, Hunter replies, "You wouldn't have left his side if you knew any different, and he knew that."

"Yeah, you're right." She sighs and leans sideways with her shoulder and head against the wall, facing him. "I'm glad you called me."

He sighs in reply.

"How are you feeling? Think you can make it upstairs to bed?"

"Hmm, maybe just the sofa over there."

She helps him stand up and leads him through the kitchen and over to the sofa in the living room. He lowers himself onto the overstuffed white sofa, holding onto her left hand as he does. She starts to walk back to where they had been lounging in the hallway to retrieve the cup of Kool-Aid, but he grips her hand tighter stopping her from walking off. She looks back at him expectantly, wondering what he's doing. Without breaking eye contact, he gently caresses the ring on her finger with his thumb and pinkie. Her heart drops as she ducks his gaze. She had forgotten that she had her ring on when she rushed to his aid, and this is not at all the way she wanted to tell him.

"Something you want to tell me?" he asks. His voice is an odd combination of deep and soft – surprise, hurt, tenderness, frustration — she isn't sure what it is she hears in his tone.

McCall sits down on the coffee table opposite him, pulling her hand out of his. She looks down at the ring and rights it on her finger. There's only a small amount of space between the sofa and the table and their knees almost touch, with hers fitting in the space between his.

"Mitch proposed."

"That's what a ring usually means."

"Right."

"Congratulations," he says with contempt instead of sincerity.

"This isn't how you were supposed to find out."

"No? How then?"

"There just hasn't been a good time."

"Why not?"

"You know…"

"What? Because I have cancer?"

"It's just…it's just...," she says and tucks stray strand of hair behind her ear, "it feels so insignificant compared to…you know…"

"No, I don't know. Getting married is insignificant? So insignificant you didn't think I would care?" When she doesn't answer, he continues. "How long have you been engaged?"

"Um…three weeks." Her voice is almost a whisper as she continues to look down at her hands resting on top of her knees.

"Three weeks. That's a long time to keep this from me. Am I the last one to know?"

"Nobody knows. I wanted you to be the first person I told, so I haven't told anyone."

"I thought getting married was what you wanted. I thought you said Mitch was 'the one'. So why aren't you happy?"

"I'm happy! I am ecstatic! And I feel guilty about it!" she exclaims finally looking up at him.

"That's bullshit. I'm sick, so you can't be happy. Bullshit." He blurts out. Poking himself in the chest, he continues, "Me? I am not your future. I am not your happily ever after. So why are you putting your life on hold because of me?"

She huffs, blowing her bangs out of her eyes, and moves to sit next to him on the sofa with her arms crossed over her chest. It's easier when he can't look her straight in the eyes. "You're blowing this out of proportion."

"Three weeks is an awfully long time to keep this kind of a secret. And somebody knows," he says as he taps the diamond with his finger, "you were wearing it tonight."

"My parents know, and Mitch's family, and some of his friends and co-workers. Every time I tried to tell you something came up that made it feel like the wrong time. But then the longer I waited the harder it got."

Hunter takes a deep breath, allowing the tension in both of them to rest a moment. "Congratulations. And I mean it."

With her head leaning against the back of the sofa, she turns it to the side to look up at him and finds him looking down at her. "Thank you."

"That's a, uh, pretty impressive rock you got there. I think it left an indention in my palm when you were helping me up the stairs. I've been trying to figure out all night what kind of weapon you were carrying."

"Oh, you poor thing," she giggles and sniffs back the tears that had been threatening to fall.

He holds out his hand, palm up, and points to the supposed spot. "See, right there, I think there are even scratches."

"Want me to kiss it and make it better, little Ricky?"

Chuckling, "Nah, I think you've performed enough nurse duty for one night. So are you going to tell me about it? Or am I going to have to hear it through the rumor mill?"

She lifts her feet up to rest on the coffee table and leans her head against his shoulder. "I ruined his plans with that dinner I planned for you and Rachel."

"That'll teach you to meddle in my love life again."

"When I got home from work a few nights later my house was filled with flowers and candles. It was really sweet, really romantic." She pauses for a moment, trying to decide how much to tell him. She knows he asked because he felt he should, not because he actually wants details. "You'll be in the wedding, won't you? Part of the wedding party?"

"Will I have to wear a dress?"

"Most definitely."

"Okay, on one condition…the dress must be hot pink with a great big bow in the back and big puffy sleeves."

"Deal." McCall laughs softly, comforted that his sense of humor has returned. "Mitch said you would tell me I was crazy for asking."

Hunter puts a foot up on the table, sinking down a little further into the cushions. "Mitch and his faux-masculinity. He's such a wimp."

"He's man enough where it counts," she teases.

"Where's a barf bag? I'm gonna need it." She laughs as he pats the sofa cushion on the other side of him pretending to look for one.

"I'm going to miss you."

"You aren't leaving me already, are you?"

"No, but I don't see this happening anymore once I'm married."

"Pregnant and barefoot with five Mitch juniors already running around — you're gonna be too deliriously happy to miss me."

Laughing, she replies, "Is that how you see me in the future?"

"Yes. And so do you."

"Well…maybe not _five_ Mitch juniors." They lapse into silence, thinking about what that future may hold. It's a future neither one can deny, but neither one will ever really be ready for.

"It's really late, you need to get some rest."

"You, too. Are you sure you're going to be okay the rest of the night?"

"I'll be fine. I'm feeling a lot better now. Thanks for coming to my rescue. I'm sorry I ruined your night."

"No thank you's or apologies needed," she says as she stands up and starts looking around for her things. "That's what I'm here for."

_...to be continued..._


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

_Humans were never meant to accomplish meaningful work on just four hours of sleep. _McCall washes two aspirin down with coffee, her third cup so far, and takes a bite of a donut, also her third. She had been exhausted when she finally made her way home last night, or rather this morning, but a shower was most definitely required before she could slide into her gloriously comfortable sheets.

Their current case, the homicide staged to look like a suicide, is a twenty-seven year old woman named Michelle Clark. The background information on Michelle and her ex-husband Ronald that McCall had requested reads like a classic case of domestic violence — numerous police visits to their home while they were married, trips to the emergency room and eventually a restraining order. Ronald also has a few assault arrests on his record. Coupled with the custody battle over their young son six months ago, there is reasonable support to consider Ronald a suspect.

"Got an update for me?" Charlie asks as he approaches McCall's desk.

"Hey, Captain," McCall says as she organizes her notes. "It is really looking like the vic's ex-husband is our man. I'm heading out in a few minutes to go have a talk with him."

"You're not going without backup, are you?" It is hard to miss the worry in his voice.

"Well…my backup is a little under the weather today. I'm just going to question him. I'll be careful."

"I'll go with you."

"Captain—"

"I'm going with you," Charlie says with authority. He leans forward, closing the distance between with them, and lowers his voice. "Listen, I, uh, talked to Hunter this morning. He didn't sound too good."

"No, he didn't sound good when I spoke to him either. He had a rough a night."

Charlie lets out a sigh and looks down at the floor, his face strained from worry. "Whatever I can do to help, whatever you two need, just let me know. We'll all do what we can around here. We're a family."

"Thank you, Captain," McCall replies. "Ready to pay Mr. Clark a visit?"

XXXXX

Ronald Clark lives in a hi-rise condominium building — not an expensive address, but it probably makes a nice bachelor pad. McCall and Charlie get off the elevator on the seventh floor and find their way to Ronald's door.

"Not a bad place to land after losing half your net worth and paying out child support," McCall says under her breath.

"From the report, I had the impression that there is not a lot of money between the Clarks," Charlie responds, looking around the neat hallway with freshly painted light gray walls.

McCall stops at the fourth door on the left, presumably Ronald's, and looks at Charlie. "There isn't," she says as she knocks on the door.

Ronald Clark looks like a grieving husband when he opens the door — unshaven, bloodshot eyes, wrinkled clothes, the smell of alcohol on his breath.

"Mr. Clark, Captain Devane and I are investigating your ex-wife's death. Can we come inside and ask you a few questions?" McCall asks their one and only suspect.

"I don't understand. I thought she killed herself. They, they told me, that, that she committed suicide?" Ronald stammers with his forehead wrinkled in confusion.

"Michelle did not take her own life. That is why we would like to talk to you. May we come in?"

Ronald looks back, into his apartment, visibly concerned about the prospect. After a moment he nods and opens the door wide to allow them to enter. The moment McCall takes a step into the small entry she understands the man's reservations. Clothes are scattered across the floor and the white leather sofa in the living room, and the coffee table is littered with fast food bags and takeout containers. The air is thick and stale, and stinks of a concoction of soy sauce, grease and whiskey.

"Where's my son? I want to know what's happening with my son."

"I'm sorry, we don't know anything about that, but I'm sure he's being cared for." McCall speaks calmly, trying to reassure him.

"Nobody will tell me anything! I just want to know who has him!"

"When we leave here I will make some calls, Mr. Clark," Charlie says. "Now, can we talk about your ex-wife?"

"Why would someone want to hurt Michelle?" Ronald asks, scratching the side of his head, leaving his oily black hair sticking out in disarray.

"We thought maybe you could answer that. You and Michelle divorced in January. It wasn't amicable, was it?" McCall asks, being a little more daring with Charlie there than she would have been alone.

"You think I could have killed Michelle?!"

"I am just asking about your divorce," McCall replies with a calm, even voice.

"I would never hurt her! I loved her!"

"Well, now see, Ronald, we find that hard to believe. LAPD responded to four domestic dispute calls to your home while you and Michelle were married," Charlie retorted.

"That was years ago. I've changed. I worked hard, and I, and I changed. I loved her."

"And then Michelle filed for a restraining order and a divorce."

"That had nothing to do with…with…all that. After Adam was born…things…just got hard," Ronald sighs and shifts his weight back and forth, uncomfortable with the conversation. "Adam was an awful baby. He cried all the time. Um, what is that? When they cry all the time?"

"Colic?" McCall offers.

"Yeah, that's it, colic. And he spit up all the time. We could only feed him a little bit, but then he needed to be fed all the time. He just cried, and cried, and cried, and when he finally fell asleep we had to wake him up to feed him. I couldn't take it. And it was just all the damn time, you know? So I would just leave. I couldn't take it. I had quit drinking and everything, you know? I was doing really good, but then Adam made me lose my temper. I had to leave so that I wouldn't hurt him. And then she got mad at me for it!"

"Is that why Michelle sued for full custody?" McCall asks, attempting a sympathetic tone.

"She said she was scared I would hurt Adam! She used all that stuff from our past making me look like a monster!"

"It must be pretty hard, not getting to see your son, not getting to see him grow up."

"Yeah. But I didn't kill her!"

"Ronald, where were you Tuesday night?" Charlie asks.

"I was here, at home, watching TV."

McCall looks Ronald over, trying to decide if she has more questions for him. "Thank you for your time, Ronald. We will be in touch."

She and Charlie turn to let themselves out when she notices a framed photo of Ronald with a woman who is not Michelle. He has his arm around the woman's shoulders and she is kissing him on the cheek. McCall turns back toward Ronald and points at the picture. "Nice picture. Your sister?"

"That's my girlfriend."

"Girlfriend?" Charlie nearly spits out the word.

"Yeah, Kristin. This is her place. She let me move in when Michelle kicked me out. I'm still paying my idiot lawyer from the divorce. You know I have to pay child support, too? They won't let me see him, but I goddamn have to pay for him."

"Where is Kristin now?" McCall asks.

"She's at the bar — the Regal Beagle on Venice Beach. She and her brother own the place."

Charlie and McCall exchange looks before continuing their way out the door. Once they are down the hallway and out of earshot McCall says, "Piece of work, huh?"

Charlie lets out a deep breath, his face still red.

"But I don't think he did it."

"No?"

McCall shakes her head. "He's too selfish, too impulsive, to have planned out a murder and a cover-up."

"I think he's guilty as hell. Concentrate on him — don't waste too much time spinning your wheels looking for another suspect."

"Yes, sir," McCall says, but they both know she has others plans. They walk quietly through the parking garage; McCall's mind is busy trying to figure out her next step before Charlie asks. She reaches for the door handle of her car, but stops and looks over at Charlie. "Want to take a drive out to Venice Beach?"

Charlie looks back at her, then checks his watch, then puts both hands on top of the passenger side of the car. He's looking at her, clearly warring with himself inside his head. Finally he answers, "Let's go get ourselves a drink at the Regal Beagle."

XXXXX

The Regal Beagle turns out to be a run-down, hole-in-the-wall surfer bar situated about a half a block from the beach. McCall and Charlie walk in, looking around their surroundings. The place is hazy with the mid-day sun shining through the windows and illuminating the smoke and dust hanging in the air. Brightly colored surfboards hang from the ceiling and the smell of fried fish wafts from the kitchen. McCall slowly makes her way toward a man behind the bar stocking beer in the coolers.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for Kristen," McCall calls out to the man.

"And you are…?" he asks as he turns around to face McCall, a gold hoop punctuating the arch of his eyebrow.

McCall pulls out her badge and holds it up. "Me."

He takes off running, bottles of beer crashing into each other as he drops them into the cooler. McCall and Charlie chase after him, through the kitchen and out a back door. The alley behind the bar is narrow and crowded with dumpsters and parked cars. Charlie notices movement in the distance and takes off running toward it. McCall, just behind him, catches up just in time to see Charlie snag the man as he's trying to jump a chain-link fence. He throws him to the ground and roughly cuffs the man's hands behind his back as he fights him.

"Get off me, man!" he screams, spitting and squirming. "What you want from me?! What you want?!"

"Shut up!" Charlie screams in reply. His face as red as a firetruck and his chest heaving, he leans over with his hands on his knees trying to catch his breath.

"Well done, Captain," McCall says with surprise on her face.

"Read…him…his…rights," Charlie says between gulps of air.

McCall reads the man the Miranda warning, and then radios for a black and white to take him to the station. While Charlie waits with their runner, McCall finally finds Kristen in the bar. Besides being rough around the edges and showing off a little too much cleavage, Kristen is polite and cooperative and clearly concerned about her brother's arrest. She is no help in verifying Ronald's alibi for the night of the murder, but she insists that Ronald could not have killed his ex-wife.

In interrogation they discover that the man they arrested is Eddie Musgrave, confirming that he is Kristen's brother, but nothing else. He refuses to answer questions, including providing an alibi.

XXXXX

It's Friday evening and Hunter has barely left his bed since McCall left his home in the wee hours yesterday morning. He hasn't felt sick, per se, but his bed was warm and his body was weak and sleep felt oh so good. He's just thinking about food, and that he probably needs some, when he hears knocking on front door door. _Go away_ he wants to scream, but he pulls the comforter over his head instead and hopes whoever it is does so without being told.

"Hello? Rick? You there?" _It's her. Why did I give her a key again?_

"Yeah," he tries to yell in response, but the word barely comes out as a whisper. Hunter clears his throat and tries again. "Yeah, McCall. I'll be right down."

He raises himself to a seated position on the edge of the bed, testing his head, before standing all the way up. His head aches, and his legs are weak, but otherwise he's feeling okay. When his stomach starts moaning with hunger, he's almost thankful McCall is here. He finds a pair of jeans and a clean t-shirt from his closet and heads downstairs, holding the handrail tight as his head sways from the low blood sugar.

"Funny, I don't remember inviting you over," He calls as he reaches the bottom of the stairs.

"Yesterday you said you wanted to be left alone. So I did. But today…your phone was off the hook…and when your sister called me…well, now, really you should be thanking me, you know. I saved you from the whole Hunter clan showing up here." She peers around the corner and looks him over. "Besides, I have a sneaky suspicion you haven't eaten anything."

"Why couldn't I have had a brother? And a male partner?"

"Now, now, a male partner wouldn't have brought you homemade chicken noodle soup. Pretty good homemade chicken noodle soup, I might add. And he wouldn't have cleaned up the vomit at the foot of the stairs just now, either." Hunter cringes, having forgotten about what happened when he didn't make it to the bathroom soon enough right after McCall left the other night.

"You didn't have to—"

"Go sit, I'll bring the soup to you," McCall says tenderly and heads toward the kitchen where she had left the provisions on the counter. Hunter follows her into the kitchen instead of following her orders.

"It actually feels good to be upright," he says when she looks back at him questioningly.

She busies herself with putting away some groceries she had picked up for him — crackers, cereal, fruit, a few frozen dinners. She knows he hates them, but he needs a few meals that are quick when he isn't feeling up to cooking.

Hunter sits at the dining table, rubbing his face with his hands. "How's our non-suicide suicide case going?"

"Frustrating. The ex-husband is the obvious suspect, and he has a lousy alibi, but we have absolutely no evidence," she says as she brings two bowls of soup to the table and sits down. "I'm not convinced he did it, though. He has a girlfriend. Her brother rabbited when we showed up to question her. Charlie chased after him and brought him down."

"Charlie? Good for him!"

"No, not good for him! I thought he was going to have a heart attack on me!" McCall laughs. "I nearly had to give him mouth-to-mouth!"

"Now, I would have been truly sad to miss that."

"Anyway, the brother has some small-time felonies on his record, but no warrants, no reason to run. So that's an interesting wrinkle. I tell you, I'm ready for you to come back and take a look. Maybe you can see something I'm missing."

Hunter shakes his head in agreement.

"You said your chemo treatments are every other Wednesday. For how long?" she asks.

"Ten treatments."

"That's…uh…five months. Going into March."

"Yeah."

"We could talk to the captain about changing our shift, you know. Working the weekend and having off Thursdays and Fridays, or something." Hunter shakes his head no. "Just a thought, you know."

"You don't want to be working weekends while planning a wedding."

McCall shrugs. "Might make it easier, being available during the week."

"Mitch would really hate me then."

"It would only be for five months, right? Mitch would get over it." Looking down into her soup, she continues quietly, "If I have a choice between working weekends and working without you, I chose weekends."

Hunter shifts in his chair, uncomfortable with her truthfulness. He clears his throat. "It's worth considering, I guess." After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, he changes the subject. "How is the wedding planning going? Got the dress and the flowers all picked out?"

"Uh, no. Let's see…well…I bought some magazines last week. I think I've thumbed through one of them?"

"That well, huh?"

"Yeah," McCall chuckles, "that well."

"You should elope. That's what I'd do."

"Just get it over and done with, huh?" McCall asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Men don't care about the pomp and circumstance, I mean, that's all for the women. We just want to get married and move on to the honeymoon," Hunter says, giving McCall a conspiratorial grin.

"That is the way you would think about it," she giggles.

"I'm not alone, McCall, I guarantee you Mitch thinks the same way."

"I think you're wrong, Hunter."

"I'm not."

XXXXX

McCall wasn't sure what she would find when she checked in on Hunter this evening, so she had not made any other plans for the night. But now, she is yearning to see Mitch. Finding out that Hunter's chemo is going to continue for five months had been a shock. She had assumed it would resemble her Dad's first round of treatment, which had been just a few weeks.

Mitch is surprised to see McCall when he opens the door. "Well, hello beautiful," he says with a smile and holds the door open for her. "Didn't expect to see you tonight."

"I left Hunter's earlier than expected, and I just couldn't bear the thought of going home alone," she purrs, and stretches up to kiss him.

Mitch's house is a small 1940s bungalow with floor-to-ceiling bookcases covering almost every wall. McCall finds his home quaint and cozy, once you get past the claustrophobia and the musty antique smell of old books. She realizes that she hasn't even begun to think about how they are going to combine households.

"Lucky me," Mitch says as he follows her into the living room. He watches her as she sits at the end the sofa, her back against the arm of it and her feet curled underneath her. He joins her, his elbow resting on the back as he situates himself to face her. "How's he doing?"

"Hmm, okay I guess. He was in good spirits." She searches his face for a while, sitting completely still and quiet. "Do want to elope?"

"Elope?" Mitch is clearly surprised by the thought.

"Yeah. We could go to Mexico next month, Cancun maybe, or maybe drive to Ensenada. Baja is pretty — it could be romantic to go away, just the two of us."

"That…that sounds great, but where is this coming from? I thought you wanted the church wedding with all the hoopla."

"Maybe it's not necessary, in the grand scheme of things. The important part is being married, right?"

"I would love to elope, but our mothers would kill us and you would regret it. You want to tell me what's going on here?"

"I'm nervous that I can't get a wedding planned by March," McCall confesses and bites her lower lip. "Rick's chemo is going—"

"Oh, of course. It's Rick! It's always about Rick!" Mitch retorts.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"This wedding is about us, right? You and me? So tell me exactly how Rick factors into this."

"I'm trying! Look, if this week is any indication of how things are going to go the next five months, then I am going to be so tied up with work there is no way I will be able to focus on planning a wedding."

"So why can't you get another partner?"

"Another partner? Are you serious?"

"Why do you have to do two jobs because he can't do his?"

"Because that's how this works!" McCall exclaims.

"It doesn't have to!" Mitch exclaims back, jumping up from the sofa and walking across the room.

"If eloping is out of the question, can we at least postpone it a couple months?"

"Sure, yeah, whatever," he says with his back still to her.

"Look, Mitch, I'm trying to work this out. I'm trying to work this out with you," she says with a weary voice, her fingers massaging her temples. "How about July?"

"July," he says, continuing to face the bookcase on the other side of the small living room. Turning around to face her finally, he adds, "yeah, July sounds good."

"Good," McCall smiles and reaches her hand out for him, "July will be perfect."

..._to be continued..._


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: After writing the next chapter it became very clear that this scene really belongs in Chapter 8 instead of the next one. This is the challenge of publishing a WIP! So, I apologize for this very short and uneventful update, but promise that another chapter is coming soon!**

Chapter 9

Monday morning had been back to work as normal after Hunter's chemo hangover. Hunter has been feeling like himself again, and McCall is feeling more relaxed with the new postponed wedding date. Charlie agreed to a shift change, with Hunter and McCall working Saturday through Wednesday until further notice. The detective team of Molina and Ryan were more than willing to give up their weekend duty to trade shifts with them.

Work itself, however, has McCall feeling like beating her head against the wall. Every new lead led to a dead-end until there were no more new leads. Charlie has them back in the barrel to catch a new case.

"I haven't worked a Saturday without overtime pay in…," Hunter raises an eyebrow and scratches his ear as he works out the math in his head, "eleven years? Yeah, I believe it's been eleven years."

"Six for me," McCall says, dressed much more casually than her recent standard pencil skirt and matching suit jacket. Her desk is covered in photographs from the Clark case — the crime scene, Michelle Clark's body, interesting items of notice around her home. McCall has searched these same photos numerous times the past few days, unable to give up on the case. Although she's conversing with Hunter, she never looks up from her task. "This weekend thing will be good for us, remind us of why we worked so hard to get our superiority. Besides, I am not going to complain about having two days each week that are guaranteed to be courtroom-free."

"Amen to that. So what is Mitch doing this weekend without you to fill his social calendar?"

"I believe his plans have something to do with football, the couch and beer. You know, he may decide he likes this arrangement after all." McCall is able to laugh about it now, but earlier this week it was definitely a sore subject between her and Mitch.

As Hunter had predicted, Mitch was less than thrilled with McCall's new hours and even less thrilled that it was her idea. She had tried to play up the positive of being truly off duty for Thanksgiving in a couple of weeks, she wouldn't even be on-call like years past, but Mitch couldn't be placated. If Mitch is going to be her husband, though, he's going to have to get used to the idea of her calling the shots when she feels emboldened — and when it comes to maintaining her partnership she always feels emboldened.

"It's unfortunate we couldn't at least get a partial print from her neck," Hunter laments, referring to the fingerprints found on Michelle's neck.

"I hate unsolved cases. Hate them," she says, still not looking up at him as she speaks.

He looks over at her and watches for a moment. Her determination and attention to detail is what makes her a world-class detective, but her level of care for the victims and her inability to let go is actually her weakness instead of her strength. He knows from experience.

"Yeah, they haunt me, too," he responds.

McCall catches the emotion in his voice and looks up at him. "I just want to figure out her story, you know? I want to be able to tell her son, her parents, why. Even if it doesn't make sense, just so they know _why_."

Hunter's phone rings, but he nods in understanding before reaching for the receiver. She watches as he listens patiently on the phone, jotting down an address on his notepad. He hangs up and takes a deep breath.

"Let's go. We caught a case."

_...to be continued..._


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

McCall parks her car in the circle driveway next to Hunter's condo. She's just making a quick stop to check on him on her way to Mitch's house. They are having a celebratory dinner tonight with Mitch's agent and publisher — the first copies of his book are hot off the presses. She wraps her trench coat around her a little tighter, trying to stay warm on this cold and windy February day as she pulls his dry cleaning out of her trunk before heading up the stairs.

Hunter's not expecting her. She had been with him until late Wednesday night, as has become their routine on his treatment days, and when she called to check on him yesterday morning he told her he was fine, that he did not need anything or any help. She hadn't really believed him.

After his first chemo treatment, the next few went a little more smoothly. He had been prepared and took every precaution. But the toll that the chemo has been taking on his body over the past four months seems to be compounding. With every treatment he gets sicker than the previous one, and the hangovers last longer. This has been especially true over the past month. Two weeks ago she had sat in his condo for over an hour waiting for him to get home from the treatment center. It had become their custom for her to come over after work on these Wednesdays. She usually brought dinner, something light and easy on his stomach, and they would watch a movie. Sometimes he slept, and she read a book or looked through her stacks of wedding magazines, waiting for the nausea and vomiting to begin. Usually, he had been home for a while when she arrives, and his only response when she questioned him last time about his lateness was that his pre-chemo blood test took longer than normal. But that time it also took him a full week to return to work, and she became suspicious.

She found it difficult to believe him when he said he was doing well the morning after his eighth chemotherapy. But, she and Mitch were supposed to meet with the printer to discuss the wedding invitations that day and she really needed to find time to shop for a dress, so she wanted — needed — to believe that Hunter was telling her the truth, and she let him be…for nearly two days…but she could not put her worry aside any longer.

"Hey, it's me, can I come in?" McCall calls as she peeks her head in the sliding-glass door. She had stopped knocking months ago — he was usually too sick or too tired to answer the door most of the time anyway.

"You're already half in," he replies without lifting his head up from the sofa.

She knows as soon as she sees him stretched out — feet on the coffee table, head leaning back, arms laying still on either side of him — that he is feeling sick again. His lean body is even leaner these days. The way he's lying there, rigid and tense, with the late afternoon sun shining in through the windows, she realizes that his muscular frame is no longer all that muscular. His hair is thinner, as well, but she's pretended to not notice that for several weeks now.

"I picked up our dry cleaning today, thought I could drop it off and check in on you on my way to Mitch's house." McCall has slowly taken on small errands and tasks for him. It started out as just picking up a few groceries for him here and there. Sometimes she'd do a load of laundry while she was there. At some point she started dropping off his dry cleaning along with hers. "How long have you been lying here?"

"Doesn't matter," he says weakly. "Lookit, go on to Mitch's. I'm fine."

"I'll just take these upstairs," she says, referring to his two sports coats draped over her arm.

Returning to the living room, she sits on the sofa facing him with her elbow resting on the back and her head resting on her hand. She doesn't say a word, just sits there looking at him.

"So you're leaving, aren't ya?" he says after a few minutes.

"Why don't you tell me what's going on?"

"I had chemo two days ago. Nausea's a side effect. I thought we've been over this."

"The past three times you've been sicker, longer. But yesterday you said you were fine."

"And yesterday morning I was fine."

"Who are you trying to protect? Me or you?"

"If I tell ya will you leave?"

"Probably not."

He lets out a small laugh before rubbing his face with his hand. "They've increased my chemo drugs." He pauses for a moment waiting for a wave of nausea to subside. "My last physical didn't show the improvement my doctor was hoping for, so he changed my treatment."

McCall digests the information, remaining completely still for a few moments. "So does that mean the chemo isn't working?"

He shrugs a shoulder. "It means I'm not responding the way the doctor expected."

She takes a deep breath and places a hand on his arm. "Let's get you upstairs. You're starting to look green."

She helps him up the stairs and into his bed, and then fetches some crackers and 7-Up. He's in the bathroom when she returns upstairs and she resumes her post as nurse just as she had done two nights ago.

He dozes off and on for a while, alternating between chills and sweating when the nausea peeks, and occasionally running to the bathroom. McCall is right there helping him bundle up in the comforter one minute and pulling it off the next until he finally seems to fall asleep.

Sometime around midnight Hunter wakes up to the sound of McCall quietly sniffling and Ali McGraw saying "Love means never having to say you're sorry."

"_Love Story?"_ Hunter croaks, and McCall quickly wipes the tears from her cheeks. "Caught," he says grinning at her.

"It was the only thing on," she replies defensively, and reaches for a tissue to blow her nose.

"Uh huh. Admit it. It's your favorite movie. You stay up late to watch it every time it's on TV."

She chuckles and points a finger at him. "You know, you knew the name of the movie the instant you woke up. Just how many times have _you _seen it?"

"I've had a few girlfriends over the past twenty years. Now, if you're finished trying to deflect your embarrassment on to a sick man, I'm hungry."

"About time!" she exclaims, blotting the last of the tears from the corner of her eyes. "I'm starving over here! What sounds good?"

"Bacon and eggs."

"Bacon and eggs? It's your stomach," she laughs, shrugging. "Do you even have bacon?"

He nods slowly as he pushes himself off the bed. "I've been craving it lately, and I'm not happy about it. It's not the cancer that's going to kill me, it's going to be a heart attack."

"I've been eating that stuff all my life and I'm perfectly healthy. Come on, Big Guy, let's go downstairs and get you some salty, greasy bacon."

They return upstairs to Hunter's bedroom after eating. The windows across the far wall of the room look out over the ocean, and the reflection of the moon on the water lights up the room. While Hunter crawls back into bed, sighing as he leans back against the pillows, McCall walks over to the floor-to-ceiling windows to take in the view. She had opened the windows earlier in hopes that the fresh air would be soothing. With them still open, the room has chilled and she runs her hands up and down her arms for warmth.

"Did you know when you rented this place?" McCall asks, a bit of wonder in her tone. She's been standing at the windows so long Hunter has almost fallen asleep.

"Did I know what? That I had Lymphoma?"

"Yeah. I mean, you had been at your last house a while and I thought you liked it. Then suddenly you moved."

"I knew I probably had cancer, yes."

She's quiet for a long moment before turning toward him. With the moonlight behind her, all he can see is her silhouette — her head tilted slightly, the way she does when she's worked out an idea in her head.

"It's a really nice house. Not really you though, is it?" she says and waits for him to respond, but he doesn't. "Did you come here to die?"

"No." He says the word firmly, but he fidgets with the sheets folded across his lap as he contemplates his explanation. "It was more of an impulse to enjoy what I can while I still can. I mean, I've never lived somewhere _nice._ I've never given much thought to it — home is just a place to sleep, really. But just this once I thought if I'm going to be sick, if I'm going to be home all the time, maybe I should make it enjoyable."

McCall walks back over to the bed and sits next him, a little closer than before. Somehow, talking about death and life choices makes being in bed with him a little less weird. "I like it here," she says, and neither of them is sure if it's the house she's referring to.

"Want to finish your movie?" he asks.

"Nah, I know how it ends. You can watch whatever you want."

He yawns and snuggles down into the bed. "I'm going to sleep." As he rolls over he cocks an eyebrow in her direction, "Unless you want to see what's on Showtime — do a little role playing. Could be fun."

She blurts out laughing. "I'm gonna have to pass on that one."

"Could be the highlight of your week."

"You wouldn't be able to keep up with me tonight, anyway," she says with a smug grin.

"Ohhoho, do I hear a challenge?"

"No!" She's laughing so hard she can barely speak. "Just go to sleep, will ya?"

He does as instructed and just seconds later she can hear him quietly snoring. She should go home. It's late. Very late. But she's tired and this bed is comfortable. The engulfing rhythm of the crashing waves and the glittery moonlight shining off the water are soothing to her tired mind. It's been a rough few months splitting her off-duty time between Hunter and Mitch, planning a wedding and picking up part of Hunter's workload. It would be so easy to stay, to fall asleep right here. Nobody is waiting for her anyway. She leans her head back against the headboard and lets the hum drown out the noise in her head.

..._to be continued..._


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

The morning sun is just starting to illuminate the eastern sky as McCall drives up to her house. She didn't really mean to sleep at Hunter's house last night, but it was nearly 6:00 a.m. when she woke and quietly snuck out the door. She's debating the practicality of going back to bed for an hour before needing to get ready for work when she turns into her driveway and finds Mitch's car parked in front of her garage.

"_Hunter is really sick. I'm sorry; I just don't think I can leave him like this. Go on to dinner without me," she said when she called him from Hunter's condo yesterday evening._

_"This dinner is important to me. It's important to me that you be there," Mitch replied, anger building in his tone._

_"I know, I'm sorry, but I just can't."_

_"Can't or won't? I don't understand why Rick needs you there every time he yacks."_

_"It's more than that, Mitch, and you know it."_

_"I'm going to be late. I'll talk to you tomorrow," he said and hung up._

McCall had worried at the time what their conversation was going to be like today, but she assumed that she had most of the day to prepare for it. She hated disappointing Mitch. She wanted to be with him last night. She wanted to be at that dinner. But she had made the choice to stay with Hunter, and she would defend that choice. Now, she's not sure at all what awaits her inside.

He's sitting at her kitchen bar when she walks into the house. He looks over his shoulder at her, his hands cupping a coffee mug.

"Hey," she says softly, closing the back door behind her. "What are you doing here?"

He takes a sip of his coffee, looking straight ahead instead of turning to acknowledge her question. Watching him cautiously, she sets her purse on the counter next to him.

"My agent was there with her husband, my editor, a couple of people from the publishing company and their wives. I've been telling everyone about my beautiful fiancé, how she's this amazing woman, how she's my number one fan. What a lucky man I am. And then I have to tell them…what exactly? That she's not coming because her partner is sick? I mean, even you have to admit that sounds like a pretty paltry excuse. I felt like I needed to scream, 'I really am engaged! Really! She really does exist.' But instead I smile and give excuses. 'I'm sorry, everyone, that you don't get to meet her tonight.' And, 'Yes, yes, she and her partner are close,' I say when they look at me a little weird. But, hey," he says, shrugging a shoulder, still not looking at her, "one of the publisher's wives is an oncology nurse, and she thinks you are a saint for standing by your partner during his chemo. So maybe, I start thinking, maybe I'm being too hard on you.

"When I left the restaurant last night I couldn't wait to tell you about it." He turns his head and makes eye contact with her at last. "Sam, one of the publishing guys, said he's never been more excited about a historical fiction before. That my book is one of the best he's read."

"That's great!" she says with a smile and affectionately rubs his arm.

He looks down at her hand on his arm for a moment, then turns his attention back to his coffee. "Yeah, yeah it's great. So I drove over here to see you. Only, you weren't here. Certainly, I think, she's going to be home soon. I'll just wait for her."

"I'm sorry. I didn't expect—"

"No, of course you didn't expect to get caught."

"That's not it at all," she responds with an aggravated sigh.

"I wondered for a while if I should call Rick, to make sure everything was all right. But, since he's sick and all, I didn't want to bother him in the middle of the night. Then I started worrying that maybe you'd been in a wreck or something had happened to you. Maybe, I thought, I should call dispatch — maybe you've been called into work. So what was it? What was it that kept you out all night?"

"I just fell asleep. That's all. It was late, and I was so tired I just decided to get a little sleep before driving home."

"So my fiancé stood me up to sleep at another man's house. Does this kind of thing happen often?"

"That's not fair. That's out of context."

"No, no it's not! You give me this bullshit that he's your partner so he doesn't count. He counts, Dee Dee, he counts! And I'm tired of sharing you with Rick!"

"You're not sharing me! I'm engaged to you! I'm planning a wedding and a life with you!"

"Then I need you to be committed to this relationship!"

"What are you saying? That I'm not committed to you? You can't be serious!" She watches his eyes, watches him struggle with what he wants to say next.

"Can you at least tell me that you weren't sleeping in his bed?"

McCall's heart drops to the pit of her stomach as she just stares back at Mitch. Hunter had been sick, and then he slept. She had curled up on the other side of his king-size bed, hugging the edge. There was no touching, not even nearness. Hunter probably didn't even know she was there, the way he fell asleep so quickly and was in the exact same position when she woke hours later. He smelled a little bit as she had sat next him on the floor of his bathroom between bouts of dry heaving, and she didn't feel one ounce of sexiness as she wiped the splattered bacon grease off his stovetop, strands of her hair sticking to her forehead in his stuffy kitchen. If she made a list of the least romantic nights of her life, this one would make the top five. But, she had slept in his bed, with him, and she couldn't lie to Mitch about it. Besides, she had to admit to herself, sex is not the only form of cheating.

Her panic at his question is written all over her face, and Mitch doesn't need her response to know the answer.

"Great! Great!" he exclaims and slams his fists onto the countertop.

"Mitch, please let me explain. It was nothing. I didn't want to leave until I knew he was going to be okay and I fell asleep."

"You were in his bed!" Mitch snarls.

"There is nothing between us! How many different ways do I have to tell you?!"

"You can stop now, because I'm done listening," he says as he reaches for his jacket draped over the back of the sofa.

"Don't leave. C'mon, let's sit down and talk about this."

"I'm done fighting Rick for your attention. I'm done being second in line."

"Don't, please don't leave like this. Let's talk. I'm sorry. I made a mistake, okay. It was all so harmless, really, but if it upsets you I'm sorry. I would never do anything to hurt you. Please. I love you."

"I'm not really sure I believe that right now."

"You're not really going to make choose between you and Rick, are you?"

"The thing is, Dee Dee, I think you already have."

She stands in disbelief as he walks out of her house.

XXXXX

She is two hours late for work when she finally walks into the precinct. Her phone had rung three times, and whether it was Mitch wanting to apologize for over-reacting or Hunter wanting to know where she was, she didn't care. Her disbelief had turned to fear, then to anger and finally to dejection.

She can feel Hunter watching her as she approaches her desk, puts her purse away in a drawer and sits down in her chair. His eyes never turn away from her, and she has no doubt that he is taking in her puffy eyes and pink nose. She attempts to appear focused on getting straight to work, but really her mind is racing and she has no idea what case file she's looking at.

"Is, uh, is everything okay?" he asks tentatively.

"I don't really want to talk about it."

"What happened this morning? What's going on?"

"Nothing. Can we just get to work?" She curses herself when her voice breaks.

He nods his head. "Yeah, we can do that. But I think you look like you could use some pancakes instead. I'm buying."

"No, thank you. I'm not hungry." The tears are right there on the surface, ready to fall again.

"Well, now I'm really worried if you're turning down free food." He gets up from his desk and walks around to sit on the edge of her desk next to her. "But I know you can't turn down coffee. Let's get outta here so you can tell me why you're crying."

..._to be continued..._


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

"How are you doing?" Hunter says out of the blue, breaking the comfortable silence in the car. McCall hasn't spoken to him much in the past three weeks, and she probably won't now either. Every other time he's tried to talk about her split up with Mitch she's replied with nothing more than "fine."

He chances a peek over at her, trying to gauge her mood. She's focused on the road, driving his car, on their way to check out a new lead on their current case. She has become the designated driver, always. It's part of their new normal.

"The wedding is officially canceled," she answers, and he's so surprised that she answered at all that it barely registers what it is she said. "I canceled the reservations at the church and the reception hall a few days ago."

"You really think that's it? No chance of reconciliation?"

"Since he won't return my phone calls? Yeah, I think that's it."

"You deserve better."

"You know, Hunter, I don't know what to say to that. I deserve better what? Mitch is who I want, but I'm the one who screwed it up. So I don't really understand why I deserve better."

Her defenses are up. He doesn't blame her.

"Hold your horses here. I just meant that you deserve a call back, you at least deserve the chance to have a conversation."

She retreats again, into the same brooding silence as before. And, again, he's surprised when he hears her voice. "I just miss him, you know?"

Hunter nods in understanding, and lets silence fall on them yet again.

XXXXX

Hunter's sitting at his desk, alone, as he is more often than not lately. Also part of their new normal: Hunter performing mostly desk duty while McCall does all the heavy lifting. He may even learn to type after all these months of being the official report writer. Today, McCall happens to be in court. Yet another responsibility McCall has had to take sole responsibility of, since Hunter himself has become unpredictable and undependable.

Another report complete — typed, signed and in the file — when he feels someone hovering nearby. Looking back over his shoulder he sees Mitch standing next to McCall's desk, looking anxious, and holding a paper grocery bag.

"Hey, Rick. Is Dee Dee around?" Mitch asks when Hunter turns around from his typewriter.

"No, she's in court today."

"Oh, okay. I, uh, brought some things she had left at my house. Just, uh, a couple of cassettes, a sweater, that kind of stuff…" Mitch babbles, obviously nervous. Hunter lets him babble. "I was hoping she would would be here. Maybe we could go have lunch. And talk."

"Oh, well, you can leave it on her desk. I'll make sure she gets it."

"Sure. Yeah." Mitch sets the bag on McCall's desk, then pushes his glasses back up his nose. "How is she?"

Hunter peers over at McCall's chair, pondering how to answer that question. _She's heartbroken, you SOB. And if you'd talk to her you'd know that. _"She's holding up."

"Yeah," Mitch says under his breath and nods, as if he knew Hunter would say that whether it was true or not.

"Hey, man, I'm sorry about your…" Mitch continues, but pauses when he doesn't want to say the word. "How are you doing?"

"Well, I'm at work today. That means it's a good day."

"Right. Right. Well, uh, tell her I came by."

"She still has the same phone number," Hunter says and flashes a sarcastic grin.

"Right. I guess she does. Thanks," Mitch says and starts walking away.

Hunter watches him for a moment, tapping his fingers on his desk. He checks his watch, and then turns back toward Mitch. "Hey, Mitch. Can I buy you lunch?"

XXXXX

Sitting at the lunch counter at Rex's, Hunter moves his salad around on his plate. The wilted leaves, drenched in oil and vinegar, look about as appetizing as paper. Sometimes, when his mind is busy with other things, he forgets. He does things, like orders the same salad he has ordered for years, without remembering that salad, and many other foods, might as well be cardboard. The chemo seems to have eradicated his taste buds instead the cancer. The last time he ate at Rex's he managed to convince McCall to trade — his salad for her grilled-cheese sandwich and french fries — and he didn't even feel guilty about it. An occasional salad would do her good.

Mitch isn't eating all that much, either. This might be the most uncomfortable lunch in the history of lunches. Hunter had a plan when he suggested it, but now it just seems like a bad idea. They seem to have exhausted the only subject they have in common besides McCall — there is only so much football you can talk about in March.

"Dee Dee must be pretty mad at me right now," Mitch says as he finally eats the french fry that he's been swirling around in ketchup for several seconds.

"Why do you think that?"

"I've been in Chicago for a while, spending some time with family. When I got home there were a couple of messages from her on my machine." Hunter doesn't respond when Mitch pauses. "The last message from her she said she canceled all the wedding plans. I didn't mean for it to go that far. I just needed to get away for a while and think."

"How is she supposed to know that? I mean, all she knew is that you weren't talking to her."

"You probably think I overreacted."

"What I think isn't important."

"It just got to the point that I didn't know how I fit in anymore. There didn't seem to be room in her life for me. Nothing against you, I just felt like an extra."

Hunter pushes his plate away, admitting defeat to the salad, and opts to nurse his cup of tea instead. "Here's what you need to know — first off, Dee Dee goes after what she wants. If she wanted to be with me instead of you, she would be." Hunter pauses to make sure Mitch doesn't take offense to this comment. "Second, there have been men before you. She's ended the relationship every single time, because she doesn't do anything her heart isn't into. Lookit, she and I have been through a lot together. We've learned to depend on each other, because at times, that's all we had."

"Man, I get ya, and I've tried to understand it and be supportive. But I'm a selfish man. I want her to myself, and I'm starting to see that that's just never going to happen." Mitch says, taking a bite out of his burger.

"Look, the timing blows. If I didn't have cancer you would be getting married next weekend and I wouldn't be a second thought to either of you. Unfortunately, that's not how it is. But you still love her, don't ya?"

Mitch looks over at Hunter for a moment, then nods his head. "I love her."

"Good, because personally, I want you two to work it out. You make her happy." Hunter lets out a long breath, and looks around the diner before responding. "She's going to need someone that makes her happy."

"Maybe that's you, because I'm not sure it's me. Love is one thing, but happiness is something else entirely."

"It can't be me. Lookit, Mitch, I'm not getting any better. Five months of chemo and I'm no better than I was before. It can't be me because she's going to need someone to be there for her when I'm not around anymore."

"I'm sorry. I'm…man, I don't know what to say. I had no idea."

"You wouldn't because I haven't told McCall yet. I've been waiting on this little quarrel to pass."

"She's going to take that hard."

"Yes, she will, and I don't want her to carry the load alone," Hunter rubs his hands over his face and blows out a breath, "I don't want her to have a ring-side seat as I slowly die."

"It's really that bad?" Mitch asks, sincerely worried.

Hunter nods, a slight, nearly unperceivable nod. "I'll do my part in pushing her away, if you follow through on the promises you've already made to her."

With that, Hunter slides off his bar stool and pulls a couple of bills out of his wallet. "Needless to say, this conversation never happened," he says and walks out of the diner.

XXXXX

Mitch must have taken Hunter's tête-à-tête to heart, because just a few days later McCall was smiling again. And although this was what he wanted, it made it no less difficult to tell her his discouraging news — he is starting a more aggressive treatment that includes radiation as well as more chemotherapy. But McCall took the news in stride, at least from Hunter's vantage point.

Since she had already canceled most of the wedding plans, now their wedding date in July is no longer available. Between McCall's required continuing education course scheduled in August and Mitch's commitment to the history department's study abroad program in Central America during the fall semester, they had no choice but to push the wedding date out to December. When Hunter questioned again why they didn't just elope and get it over with, McCall simply replied, "Our relationship is in a trial phase."

"See you later. I'll be over by six." McCall says when she sees Hunter putting on his suit jacket and preparing to leave. It's chemo Wednesday again. "Any special dinner requests tonight?"

"Nope, not this time. You're not coming over," Hunter says, making true on his promise to Mitch.

"What?" She says, sounding hurt.

"Go see your fiancé. Have a nice dinner, or whatever it is you two do together."

"You don't need…."

"My mother is spending a few days with me. In fact, she's outside waiting to drive me."

"Oh! Okay, then. Good," she says, adjusting her plans in her head. "I'll give you a call later, then."

"If you feel you must. Chow."

_...to be continued..._


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

"Hey, Honey, are these books in here organized in any particular way? Do you care how I box them up?" McCall yells from Mitch's living room. She glances around the room that looks more like a well-used library than a living space and feels tired just looking at all the work ahead of her.

Mitch walks in carrying a box labeled "donate" and sets it on top of two other boxes. His white Reagan/Bush '84 campaign t-shirt is covered in dark gray smudges from the newspaper he's using to pack his dinner and glassware. The smudged handprint on his cheek makes McCall smile.

"I don't think that shirt will ever be clean again," McCall laughs looking up at him from her spot on the floor next to a pile of old manuscripts she's just discovered on a bottom shelf.

He looks down to check out his shirt and replies, "I thought you'd argue that this shirt wasn't clean to start with."

"Yeah, well, that, too," she laughs.

Today was supposed to be their wedding day — the July date they picked after they postponed the wedding the first time. So instead of getting married this weekend, they decided to start living together.

There's not much left in the house besides boxes and bookshelves. McCall spent her off-duty days having much of Mitch's furniture sent to a consignment store to be sold, only keeping his bedroom furniture that will fit perfectly in her empty guest bedroom and a few antique pieces Mitch had inherited from his great-grandparents. The lovely Queen Anne style writing desk will look great in her living room, but the collection of vintage tin signs is going to be a challenge. Now she is taking her first vacation days in over six months to help get the job done before Mitch lists the house for sale.

"The books. Yeah, they are grouped by subject matter." He surveys the room, just as McCall had done a minute ago. "They need to stay organized that way. I'm thinking I can take the ones relating to my courses up to my office. You know, maybe I should do this room and you do the kitchen. I bet I can find a few books that I can get rid of — donate them with the kitchen stuff."

"Really? I didn't think you ever let go of a book."

He smiles to himself. "Guilty as charged, but a couple of months ago I came across my ex-wife's college year books. I think I can part with those."

"Umm, yes, please."

"So, are you ready for all this junk?"

"All the stuff, no," she says and laughs, "but you, yes."

Mitch walks over to her and leans down to kiss her. "I can't wait."

XXXXX

"Hunter! McCall! My office!" Charlie yells from the door of his office. It's meant to sound stern and authoritative, but there's a smile on his face.

McCall smiles, too, for that is a beckon they haven't heard in a while. Once upon a time, Charlie yelling their two names together in frustration/aggravation/exhaustion was standard practice, but now that Hunter's role is largely administrative it's usually only McCall being called into his office.

"What do you think this is?" Hunter asks her.

"I have no idea," she answers as they both stand up.

They walk together into the office and sit in their usual wood chairs across from Charlie. McCall looks over at Hunter to smile at him —this oddly comforting little progression of events almost makes the last several months seem like a bad dream. Almost, but not really, and the beginnings of her smile falter. The man sitting next to her is not the friend and partner she's accustomed to seeing, he's merely a shadow of himself. His once golden tan skin is dry and pale with a grayish tint, as if he's been dusted with ashes. No matter how rested he is, how much time he has taken off, the dark circles under his eyes remain. His dark blond hair is now completely gone. If his head appeared large before, bald and perched on top of skin loosely draped over a skeleton makes it almost cartoonish big.

She has been missing him lately. They see each other briefly here and there, but they are only partners on paper. They may be assigned the same cases, but McCall is mostly working them with other detectives. Then there's the large amounts of time off he's been taking. He's keeping to himself more, leaning on his family when he needs help instead of her. It's a relief, she tells herself, but she can't help but feel pushed aside.

"It's been a while since I've been able to yell your names across the squad room. It felt good," Charlie says, his face lit up in humor.

"So what's this about, Captain," Hunter says, getting right to the point. He seems to be the only one not appreciating the moment.

"Oh, yes, well," Charlie begins, picking up a file folder and opening it. "This case from Hollenbeck has come to my attention. It's a suicide, a female, and she was known to frequent the Regal Beagle in Venice Beach."

"Uh, what's the Regal Beagle?" Hunter asks, confused.

McCall answers, "The staged suicide we had a few months ago, her ex-husband's girlfriend owns it." She reaches her arm out across Charlie's desk. "Can I see the file?"

"So what does this mean?" Hunter asks while McCall reads through the reports.

"I want you two to see what you can dig up. It's possible this wasn't a suicide. Hunter, I'm including you on this one because it was your case originally. I want to keep you in the loop."

"Okay, I guess I'll get started with a trip to the bar, see what I can find out there. You want to dig through the reports and make some calls?" she asks Hunter as she quickly flips through the information in the file.

"No, I'll go with you. I'm tired of my desk," he responds.

"Yeah? Are you sure you're feeling up to it?"

"I need to get out of here. I'll read you the reports on the way."

She shrugs her shoulders and leads the way back out of Charlie's office. This hasn't seemed like one of Hunter's better days to her, but perhaps his irritability and lethargy today have more to do with depression than any physical discomfort. Getting out in the field might be what he needs after all.

XXXXX

The Venice Beach dive bar is busier this time than when McCall and Charlie had visited it in November. Standing just inside the doorway, a large overhead garage-style door making the outdoors and indoors blend into one another, Jimi Hendrix fills their ears. Hunter slowly pulls off his aviators and McCall blinks several times adjusting to the light. The bar is lined with tanned and toned bodies sporting various shades of bleached hair. The scent combo of beer, fried fish, cigarette smoke and Hawaiian Tropic makes McCall wrinkle her nose, and she peers over at Hunter to see him rubbing his nose and pulling at the knot in his tie. McCall spots Kristin Musgrave, the owner, working behind the bar and starts walking toward her. Hunter pulls his tie off completely and unbuttons the neck of his shirt before following her.

Kristin recognizes McCall before she's even finished squeezing herself between two thirty-something-year old men that look like they bathe in the ocean instead taking actual showers. She had been casually chatting with the men before seeing McCall's approach.

"You can't possibly be here to ask more questions about Michelle," Kristin says with irritation, popping the tops off a handful of beer bottles as she does.

"No, I'd like to ask you about Dinah Franks," McCall replies.

"Never heard of her."

"Really? I've been told she came here often."

"Must have paid in cash. I don't know anyone named Dinah."

"So it wouldn't mean anything to you to know that she was found dead two days ago." As McCall says this the older of the two surfers flanking her snaps his head to look at her. Kristin, however, quickly breaks eye contact and walks away, distributing the beers to their waiting patrons.

McCall continues to watch Kristin, making note of her body language until the guy on her left starts talking to her. "Did you say Dinah's dead?"

She turns her attention to his direction, and notices that Hunter has cozied up to group of women at the end of the bar. "Yeah, did you know her?"

"Yeah, she's in here all the time. We'd hang sometimes. All the dudes here know her."

"How is that?"

"She was friendly, flirty."

"How friendly?"

"Nah, not like that. For a while I thought she was hooked up with Eddie, but that's over if they were and she kept comin' round. Think she said somethin' about crashing with a friend down the street and hangin' here so that she didn't bother her friend."

"Do you know anything—" a commotion interrupts McCall. She quickly looks around to locate Hunter, and not finding him she knows instantly that he's involved.

Pushing past the group of women surrounding him, she finds Hunter lying in a heap on the floor. "Rick, Rick, are you with me?" she frantically asks as she gently taps his cheek with her hand. His skin feels cold and damp to the touch. With no response from him, she checks his pulse. It's fast.

"Someone call an ambulance!"

XXXXX

An elderly man in a wheelchair looks around at the waiting faces, the fear in his eyes grabbing McCall's attention. He's clutching his chest in between squeezing his left hand. She wonders if this is his first heart attack, or one of many. The woman who wheeled him in is talking to the triage nurse. She's a little younger than the man, who presumably is her husband. She looks frantic, scared. McCall continues to watch the couple, as the woman sits down in a chair opposite him. She grabs hold the man's hand, the one he was just shaking as if he was trying to regain feeling in it, and holds it as she says something to him. He nods his head at whatever it was she said, and she reaches up to adjust his shirt that had become askew with him rubbing his chest before gently patting his shoulder. The care and affection of this woman for this man makes tears well up in McCall's eyes. _To love someone for so long, and then to face the loss of that person, how do you survive that?_

This waiting room chair feels as though it shrinks a little with every tick of the clock. It's been two hours since McCall was forced to leave Hunter's side to be replaced by his mother. Now, she sits and waits, with no updates, no information. When she left, he was still barely coherent.

"Dee Dee." McCall looks up at the sound of her name to see Hunter's sister rushing toward her. The two women quickly hug, McCall arching up as high as she can on her toes just to get her chin above Marie's shoulder. There is no doubt Hunter and Marie are siblings — Marie is at least four inches taller than McCall, with the same dark blond hair, blue eyes and naturally tan skin as Hunter. McCall assumes all these qualities came from their father, because Mrs. Hunter resembles the stereotypical southern Italian woman with a darker complexion and an expressive, affectionate demeanor. Unlike her older brother, Marie inherited their mother's love of food and full figure, making her presence in a room almost larger than life. "What's going on? How's he doing?"

"I don't know. Your mother's with him — they will only let one person back there at a time. When I left his room they had drawn blood and were planning to do a CT scan to rule out a seizure, said he looked dehydrated. That's all I know."

"What happened?" Marie asks. She sits in the chair next to McCall's as she waits for the answer, arranging her broomstick skirt around her legs as she crosses them at the knee.

"I don't know! He just collapsed. He was talking to a group of women one minute and then the next he was on the floor unconscious." McCall follows Marie's lead and sits down in her chair. She continues to mentally chastise herself for allowing Hunter to accompany her to the bar. "He hadn't seemed to feel well today, but it didn't seem like a big deal. He kept insisting he was fine."

"I'm so glad he was with you when it happened. I worry about him all the time. It's getting really tough."

"How has he been lately? He doesn't tell me much anymore."

"He's, um…" Marie looks at McCall for a long moment, sympathy written in her expression. She folds her hands in her lap and takes a deep breath before continuing. "Did he tell you about his last tests?" When McCall shakes her head no, Marie continues. "The cancer has spread. The doctors are telling him…" again she pauses. "Dee Dee, remission is no longer in the conversation."

McCall blinks several times as if the words sting her eyes.

"I assumed you knew," Marie says sympathetically. "God, I wish Mom would come tell us what's happening."

_I should have known. I should have seen it. _

"I'm going to find out what's going on," McCall says and quickly walks towards triage.

He's been admitted into the hospital and moved into another room while she was waiting, and it takes a few minutes to find him. The door to his room is partially open, so she tentatively walks in. Hunter appears to be asleep, while his mother, Gloria, sits in a chair on the opposite side of the bed. Her attention is turned to the TV as she changes channels looking for something to watch.

"Hi, Dee Dee. Come in," Gloria says, waving McCall in to the room, "we are just getting settled into the room. The doctor is supposed to be here soon."

"Marie is here. She's in the waiting room," McCall says, walking up to the side of the bed.

"Oh, oh good. Maybe I should go talk to her," Gloria says and leaves McCall alone with Hunter.

She stands there for a moment, unsure what to do. "Wheel! Of! Fortune!" blares from the TV. The juxtaposition of joviality and bleakness is jarring.

"Hiya," he says, his voice rough.

"Hi. How're you doin'?"

"Peachy."

McCall shakes her head and walks around the bed to sit in the chair his mother just vacated. "Do they have any idea what's going on?"

"Nah, except I'm a cancer patient. So far that seems to be the diagnosis."

"You scared me there for a little bit."

"Sorry about that," he says. "Did you at least get any information from the bartender?"

McCall thinks for a moment, but comes up blank. "I don't even remember. You?"

"I don't remember. Some detectives we are, huh?"

She nearly snorts thinking about her conversation with Marie. She certainly hadn't been much of a detective lately — he's been pushing her away and she had let him without even questioning his motives.

"You don't have to stay just to keep me company. I will be fine by myself for a few minutes," Hunter says as if he's reading her mind.

"What if I want to stay?"

"Just sayin' don't feel like you have to."

"Marie told me. She told me that the cancer has spread." This time Hunter doesn't answer. "So what is the prognosis?"

He lets out a long, loud sigh. "They don't know. I think they are just guessing. I mean, everything they have told me so far has been wrong."

She leans forward and takes his hand between hers. He squeezes back.

"I'm sorry," she says and tilts her head back as tears begin the well up in her eyes. She was hoping that Marie had been exaggerating, that he would have an alternate explanation that wasn't so grim. "If there was anything I could do, I would do it."

"I know. And that is exactly why you need to leave."

"Stop pushing me away, Rick. I'm your friend. I love you. I want to be here for you."

He gently rolls onto his side to face her and holds both her hands in his. "But there's nothing you can do. There's no reason for you to bear this burden. Marry Mitch, get a new partner, get on with your life, because I'm not coming back. I'm not."

"Don't say that," she whispers, a tear streaming down her cheek.

"I can continue treatment for as long as I want. The chemo and radiation are prolonging my life, but they aren't going to get rid of the cancer. I can live an extra few months, maybe a year, as long as I can stand the treatments. That doesn't really sound like a life worth living, does it? And really, what am I prolonging it for?"

"For a lot of reasons!"

"Come on, McCall. I'm a cop who can't be a cop anymore. I don't have children to see grow up."

"You have a niece and nephew that adore you."

"It's not the same. I don't even have a wife to live for."

"You have me."

He smiles before he counters her statement. "I'm a burden on you. And my family. I haven't been telling you all of this because I was hoping I could make this happen naturally. But, it's time to face it, Dee Dee, and you need to move on."

"So, what then? You're just giving up?"

"Giving up what? I can be really sick for a long time and then die, or I can go quietly and let everyone else continue on with their lives."

"You really think that if you just stop talking to me then I won't care anymore? That if I don't know you're dying I won't notice when it happens?"

"No, but maybe if I'm not such a big part of your life anymore, maybe it won't hurt as much."

"Unbelievable," she says, pulling one of her hands from his to wipe the tears from her face.

"I know, okay," he says and squeezes her hand a little tighter. "I know. I don't need you at my bedside to know how you feel. I'd rather see you living your dream than sitting here crying."

"Please don't do this. Don't take away the time I have left with you."

"Is it time worth spending? Like this, in a hospital?"

"You know I would have given anything to have one more minute with Steve. Something. Anything. Don't take it away from me this time. Don't do this."

"I know. But I've also watched you grieve him. I don't want you to grieve me. Move on. Now. Please. This isn't how I want you to remember me. Okay?"

The raw emotion in his voice, the tears choking his words, makes her cry harder. She's never seen him cry. Not once. The enormity of the situation and his request is more than she can stand. She reaches up and caresses the side of face, feeling the cold wetness on his cheek.

"You mean the world to me," he says.

"No, don't do this."

"Thank you for being my partner," he continues as if he didn't hear her. McCall continues shaking her head no. "You've been a better friend to me than I ever deserved."

"Stop. This is too soon. I'm not ready to lose you."

"It's going to happen," he says and he turns his head in her hand to place a kiss on her palm. "It's going to happen."

"No," she says because it's the only thing she can think of to say. She refuses to give in to Hunter's good-bye speech, and thankfully he stops talking.

They continue sitting there, with her hand stroking his face and his arm wrapped around her shoulders, until the doctor walks in, breaking the intimate moment. She wordlessly picks up her purse, kisses Hunter on the forehead, lingering for a long moment, and walks out of the hospital.

XXXXX

It's well after dark when McCall arrives home. After leaving Hunter, she needed to get out of the hospital and away from people. The weight of everything Hunter had said pressed down on her, threatening to crush everything she held dear. She didn't want to talk; she didn't want to explain; and she didn't want to pretend everything was okay. Now that Mitch had moved in, she had no place to go to be alone. That's when she found herself driving to Hunter's condo.

She didn't feel some sentimental need to be in his home. This place didn't hold any special memory for her since he just moved in a year ago. The furnishings aren't even his — the beachfront rental had come furnished. But she needed a place to be alone and this was the only one she could think of. Sitting on his balcony, she watched the sunset over the ocean. The beach was crowded with people enjoying the mid-summer evening. A family had taken up residence right in front of her, their arms full of blankets and toys and food when they arrived. They had a picnic on one of the blankets — the mother dutifully passing out food and making sure everyone had drinks and napkins, while the father repeatedly chased after the pudgy and curious toddler who refused to be contained by the boundaries of the faded quilt. That's the life she's been chasing since she married Steve twelve years ago, right? So why does she feel like the wayward toddler, being forced to sit contently where she's told?

The lights are still on in her house as she walks in. She had been hoping to come in and shower, to wash away the smeared mascara and the salty taste on her lips, before having to face Mitch.

He's zipping up a large, fully stuffed suitcase when she walks into the bedroom. He looks up at her when he realizes she's there watching him. The look he gives her isn't anger, or even frustration. There's sadness in his eyes and regret in his posture.

"I'm going to stay a few days at my house. Give you some space," Mitch says, looking around her bedroom at the boxes they had yet to unpack in the two weeks he's lived here.

McCall rubs a finger against her temple and squeezes her eyes shut, willing the clouds in her head to clear enough to have this conversation. "I…um…I'm not sure I understand what's going on."

"I saw you today in Rick's room. I went to hospital right after work to make sure you were okay. Hunter, too, of course." He shrugs his shoulders as he looks down at his bag still on the bed. "I'm sorry about Rick. I really am. I thought I could do this — be here for you as he… But I think, at least right now, we probably both still need our space. So, I'm going to go home now, and I'll wait for you to decide when you're ready for me to come back."

"I'm not sure I will," she says, the words barely croaking out of her mouth. She had already made this decision as she contemplated her life from Hunter's balcony, but hearing the words out loud surprises her.

Mitch looks away, stung by her admission.

"I'm sorry, Mitch."

He picks up his bag and carries it over to where McCall is standing, setting it on the floor next to them. "I'm sorry, too. Goodbye, Dee Dee," he says and lightly kisses her cheek.

XXXXX

The early morning sun is bright in Hunter's room when McCall arrives. Neither his mother nor Marie seem to be here yet, but someone has opened his curtain. He opens his eyes at the sound of footsteps and seems surprised to see her.

"You look a little better than you did when I left yesterday. How are you feeling?" she asks, claiming the chair closest to the bed.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm visiting my best friend who's in the hospital."

"McCall…" his voice is weak and pleading.

"You may have decided to throw in the towel, but I'm not ready to give up on you, yet. You can't tell me to just go away. You mean the world to me, too, and you can't just take my world away and not expect a fight."

"What about what I want? I'm the one that has to live with this."

"It is your life to live, but it's a life worth fighting for. The Hunter I know doesn't give up and he's not a victim, so I'm not going to treat him like one."

"I could force you to leave, you know."

"I know. But you won't."

He closes his eyes and takes several breaths. He's getting frustrated with her, but she doesn't care. At last he mumbles, "Do you know how stubborn you are?"

"That's why you love me," she says, half smiling. Taking a deep breath, she changes her tone to a more serious and sympathetic one. "You've been there for me through some really awful times. We got through them, though, together. We're going to get through this, together."

"Not this—"

"Say it again and I'll kill you myself."

"I'm tired of all of this," he whispers. "I'm tired. I feel like I'm hitting my head against a brick wall and I don't know how much longer I can stand it."

"I'm sorry," she says and reaches out for his hand. "So if…if there really is nothing to stop the inevitable, we'll still face it together."

_...to be continued..._


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

It's been two weeks since McCall sacrificed her relationship with Mitch to devote her time and attention to Hunter. She hasn't told him that Mitch is gone — his things cleared out of her house and the engagement ring he had given her placed back into its black velvet box and packed away somewhere amid Mitch's ties and belts — and he hasn't asked. She is at his bedside day after day, and that tells him all he needs to know.

She feels like she finally knows what it was like for Hunter nearly two years ago when she spent months in the hospital after being shot in the back — always coming and going, trying to spend time with Hunter as he rests and recovers, while at the same time trying to answer the Dinah Franks' suicide or homicide question.

"Hi!" McCall says cheerfully as she enters Hunter's hospital room. Gloria is still here. She has been by to visit him every day, but she's rarely here this late in the evening.

"Hello there, darling," Gloria replies as she walks over to hug McCall. McCall would generally consider herself an affectionate person, but Gloria takes it to a whole new level. Instead of being annoying, though, she finds it rather comforting and familial. "We were expecting you hours ago."

"I know. I got caught up at work."

"What's going on?" Hunter asks quickly. Not being involved in police work, stuck in a bed for days on end, is killing him. They spend most of their time together discussing McCall's cases, and she's happy to oblige.

"I brought in Musgrave for questioning. Three of us, and six hours, and we got nothin'. This guy may be the tightest lipped suspect I've ever interrogated."

"What did you find to bring him in on?"

"Remember me telling you how close Musgrave and his sister are? That she seems to take care of him: getting him jobs, he's lived with her off and on, she's the cosigner on both his car and his apartment?"

Hunter nods his head impatiently.

"I've spent some time digging into Kristin's life and found that she spent two months in a mental institution back in high school…immediately after her best friend committed suicide."

"So why are you questioning the brother and not Kristin?"

"Well—"

"Okay, okay, enough shop talk!" Gloria interrupts, waving her hands in the air just in case her words weren't enough. "I can't wait any longer. You two can talk about murders and suspects after I'm gone."

"Can't wait for what?" McCall asks, glancing back and forth between them.

"Well tell her!" Gloria exclaims when Hunter doesn't immediately start talking.

"Will you give me a chance?" He may be feeling better, but his irritability is rising. The exacerbated look he gives her makes McCall smile — it's a look she knows well.

"Sorry! I'll shut up know, let you talk." She covers her mouth with one hand and motions to him to begin with the other.

"I'm going home tomorrow. Finally get to fly this coup."

Unsure what this means, McCall gives a cautious "okay."

"And I'm also starting treatment with Dr. Patel."

"Oh," she says in surprise. "That's great. Dr. Patel, I liked him. I liked him a lot." McCall has taken it upon herself to seek out alternative doctors and treatments for Hunter's lymphoma. He's been largely unresponsive when she tells him about her findings, but he hasn't stopped her either. Apparently he has been paying attention after all.

"Well, he's not the doctor I would have picked, but…" Gloria trails off holding her arms up in a gesture of "it's out of my hands."

Hunter nods his head, acknowledging that he's indeed heard her protests already. Watching his mother, he explains her frustration "It's the riskiest. Experimental."

"Right…right, but he's had a lot of success. I think it was the right decision," McCall offers. She watches Gloria — taking in her tired eyes, her knitted eyebrows, the way one side of her lower lip keeps disappearing behind coffee-stained teeth for a quick nibble. How difficult it must be to watch your child suffer, to know that they will leave this earth before you do. It's hard to imagine that at some point Gloria held a tiny Hunter in her arms, cuddling him close and soothing away his tears. McCall can understand why, in her mind, no risk is worth taking. Experimental isn't good enough when you still see that helpless babe crying "mama" in the face of your grown son.

McCall holds out her hand for Gloria to take it. From her seated position, McCall's hand is almost level with her face and she presses their conjoined hands to her cheek like a hug.

"If this one doesn't work, we'll try another." McCall asserts, her focus on Hunter. He ducks her attempt at making eye contact, but gives her a begrudging nod of his head, thereby giving his approval of this makeshift cancer-fighting alliance.

XXXXX

The transition home and beginning the new treatment is tougher than anyone could have expected and the new treatment is no friendlier than the original chemotherapy had been. Daily McCall fears Hunter reaching his limit — calling it quits and waving the white flag. _You win, cancer, I call uncle. I'd rather take my chances with Saint Peter and the pearly gates._

McCall has basically moved into Hunter's guest bedroom. At first it was just a night here and there, she'd be too tired to drive home or worried that he might need help during the night, but as more and more of her things litter his guest bath the reasons to go home are fewer and fewer.

The Dinah Franks' case is still unsolved, much to McCall's frustration. This case, along with the Michelle Clark case, may just be her biggest failures as a homicide detective. Both women's deaths were staged as suicides and they were both connected to Eddie Musgrave, but try as she might McCall has not been able to connect the murders or nail down a suspect, not even Eddie Musgrave himself. It's not that she can't do her job without Hunter, or without any partner, these just always seem to be the cases that get the shaft when Hunter requires all of her attention and energy.

McCall's inability to remain focused on work, her uncharacteristic lack of discipline and devotion are a source of frustration for Captain Devane, as well. Tensions have swelled, leaving McCall feeling even more isolated with Hunter officially on long-term disability.

It's a Friday night and McCall would love nothing more than to go home and soak in her bathtub, in her bathroom, in her house, until the water's cold and her fingers resemble prunes. But, Hunter started a new medication on Wednesday that has made him sicker than a dog, so instead of much needed rest and relaxation she is headed to Hunter's condo for a weekend of nursing care and laundry. Lots of laundry — she can't remember the last time she washed a load of clothes. She even had to hand-wash a pair of underwear last night just have a clean pair to wear today and she's hoping Hunter still has a clean t-shirt she can borrow when she gets there.

As she walks into his condo the place is dark and stifling. He's taken to running the heater at 82 degrees, unable to knock off the constant chill left behind from the chemo and the fact that he has no body fat or muscle tone left for insulation. She finds him attempting to raise himself from a chair and she runs over to help him, noticing the green hue to his face. He tries to wave her off, to get her away from him, but it's too late. McCall's gray suit, the only one clean enough to wear, is soiled before she even realizes what is happening. Without as much as a blink she helps him to the bathroom.

Once she gets him settled in the bathroom, she tries to clean herself up, but it's hopeless. Instead she finds a pair of her jeans and pulls out a plaid button-down shirt from Hunter's closet. He indeed has no clean t-shirts. Since she's in his closet already, she decides to sort the clothes in his hamper and get that mountain of laundry started. His phone rings as she contemplates how she ended up in a situation of handling Hunter's underwear and it seeming normal.

"Hunter residence," McCall answers.

"McCall, it's Charlie. We've got a DB in Sherman Oaks, I need you here ASAP."

"I'm off duty, Captain," McCall says, assuming the captain has his days confused. Now that Hunter is no longer working, she has returned to working her normal Monday through Friday shifts.

"I'm aware of that, _Sergeant_. I expect to see you here pronto," Charlie commands.

"But wait, Captain, I just got a new case two days ago. I can't be up again."

"Well, perhaps, if you could find time to actually solve a few cases and get a few murders off the streets you wouldn't have so many cases on your desk! The Chief is up my ass with speculation of a serial killer and my supposedly best detective seems to have forgotten how to be a detective! Now, do you think you can follow a command for once and get your ass here before I have to start pulling badges?!"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," Charlie says, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Though Charlie's accusations sting, it's his comment about a serial killer that sticks in her head the most. "Um, sir, serial killer?"

There is a long pause before Charlie's reply, but she can hear the hum of the chaos in the background so she knows he has not hung on up on her. "It's another strangulation made to look like a suicide. The MO is the same as the Clark and Franks cases."

"I'm on my way."

XXXXX

McCall has shown up to crime scenes wearing all kinds of attire from sequined cocktail dresses and full-length opera gowns to shorts and a t-shirt, but faded jeans and Hunter's favorite brown plaid dress shirt has to be an all-time low. It's not until she's weaving her way through the crowded crime scene and notices the stares from the other cops that she realizes which shirt she had quickly slipped into. He's probably worn this shirt twice a week for as long as she's known him. Although, the length of the shirt on her is probably a dead giveaway of it's rightful owner anyway.

She arrives in time to see the body being carried out and loaded into the medical examiner's van. She takes her time as she checks out the bedroom of the modest suburban home where Kimberley Snead had been found on the floor of the closet underneath a pile of clothes and hangers. The rod must have broken when the step stool, now lying on its side several feet away, had been kicked out from under her feet. It's unlikely there had been enough force to break her neck before the rod broke.

McCall continues to walk through the house looking for hints about Kimberley's life, checking out framed photographs, listening to messages on her answering machine and searching for any signs of forced entry. She's standing in the kitchen, noting what appears to be a to-do list on a small wall-hung chalkboard when she overhears her name.

"Did you see McCall when she walked in?" a man's voice asks, making no attempt to be quiet. He obviously has no idea McCall is just around the corner.

"Yeah. Wonder what she and Hunter were up to?" Another man replies and snickers. "There's only one reason a broad ever puts on man's shirt."

"I wonder if he calls out 'partner' or 'sergeant' while he's fucking her?" Both men laugh, one of them sounding like a seal as he attempts to hide his chuckles.

_Cute. Real cute._

"You know she was engaged, right? I heard he dumped her because of Hunter."

"Exactly what do you two idiots think you're doing?!" Captain Devane's voice explodes into the room. "What part of that conversation has anything to do with your jobs? I don't even know why you're here at all!"

"Sir—" one of the men interrupts.

"I'm not done!" Charlie yells.

McCall takes a couple of steps toward the kitchen doorway, just enough to be able to see Charlie and the two uniforms he's dressing down. Charlie's face looks as though it's on fire. Not a whisper can be heard as all eyes have turned to witness the exchange.

"Who is your staff sergeant?"

"Ruiz, sir. Sergeant Ruiz." Laughing Seal answers, looking down at his feet instead of Charlie. His laugh matches his appearance: small head and large waist.

"I never want to see either of your faces again! You hear that?! Ever! You disrespect one of the best detectives in this department and expect to keep your jobs? Not on my watch!" Charlie screams, poking the overweight, aging officer in the chest. "You don't have a clue what you're talking about. You want to spread some rumors? Huh? Spread this: talk trash about a fellow officer dying of cancer and his partner who is a better cop in her sleep than you will ever be and you will never wear a badge in this town again." He continues with a sneer so grimacing he's practically growling, "Get out of my crime scene. Now!"

Both men scurry out of the house like scolded puppies with their tails between their legs, while Charlie places a hand against the wall as if he has just expended every ounce of energy he has. His nails claw at the drywall and McCall swears there is actual steam coming out of his ears.

The need to run and hide from all of the eyes looking right at her, all of the open mouths and unspoken accusations, is trumped by momentary paralysis. Her feet seem to have sunk in concrete because they will not move no matter how many times she tells them to.

"We have work to do here, gentlemen. Move along." Barney's voice breaks through the white noise ringing in McCall's ears. She's never appreciated the grumpy ME more.

XXXXX

"Captain?" McCall asks as she walks into Charlie's office with an update on her newest case. They haven't spoken since his outburst several hours ago and she's a little nervous about what his mood might be.

"Hey, McCall, come in," Charlie says with a slight smile.

"Um…sir…you didn't have to come to my defense like that. It's not the first time a woman officer has been heckled by the idiots in our ranks, and it won't be the last. I can handle it."

"But you shouldn't have to."

"Having my male superior defend me doesn't really help, though," McCall says sheepishly, focusing on the papers in her hand rather than him.

"I did lose it a little bit there, didn't I?"

"Just a tad," she says as she gestures with her fingers, her thumb and her index finger demonstrating about an inch of space between them.

"You and Hunter are like family to me. I might yell and scream at you two, but nobody else gets to damn it."

McCall smiles and lets out small laugh.

"But maybe you should wear your own clothes to work from now on?"

"I didn't really have an option, sir. It was this or what appeared to be cherry Kool-aide and carrots."

Charlie scrunches his nose and rubs his hand over his mouth when he figures out McCall's insinuation.

"Maybe I was a little too hard on everyone tonight," he says. His head is bowed but his eyes are focused squarely on McCall making sure she understands that he means her as well. McCall shrugs off the apology. "Times are tough right now for all of us. There's…it's…," he sighs, trying to find the right word, "it's heartbreaking seeing a member of the family in pain."

"Yeah."

"You know, I've been thinking about Ambrose a lot lately."

Lieutenant Finn's unfortunate death shortly after his wife's battle with a terminal illness last year is still felt around the precinct, but never spoken.

"Yeah, me too. It's like I know how he felt now. What he must have been going through with Sheila."

"Yeah."

"I guess a little piece of me understands how he just snapped. The world just seems so unfair, and you're just so…helpless."

"I know how much Rick means to you. I do. But I'm worried about you. I don't want to see you lose yourself in his illness. You and Rick, you both have a pretty large support system around you. Let us help you, because, Dee Dee," he pauses until McCall meets his eyes, "where he's going you can't follow. Don't sacrifice your life here, you're going to need it when this is over."

XXXXX

"Hey," she says softly, rubbing Hunter's shoulder to wake him.

He startles at the contact before relaxing when he realizes it's her. "Hey," he whispers. "What time is it?"

"It's after nine. Go back to sleep; I just wanted to let you know I was here."

"No, no, stay." He rubs his hands over his face and gingerly pulls himself up a little to lean against the headboard. "I just laid down to rest a few minutes."

She nudges her shoes off, letting them drop onto the floor, and settles into the bed next to him. "We finally got Eddie Musgrave for the staged suicides."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. He finally made a mistake. A neighbor across the street from this latest one saw Musgrave walking around the house, thought he looked suspicious, so she wrote down the license plate number."

"I've told you before — you have to find the little old lady."

"Right." She smiles. "Kimberley Snead was a receptionist at a psychologist office back in the seventies…when Musgrave and his sister were patients there. He seemed to have kept tabs on her over the years. Shortly after he stopped receiving treatment at that office she had filed a restraining order against him after she saw him following her through a grocery store, but nothing ever came of it."

"So what made him kill her after all these years?"

"We haven't gotten there yet. Not specifically. All three of these women, though, have similar physical characteristic. Same hair color, skin tone, similar body type. And they all, also, look similar to Musgrave's sister's best friend who committed suicide in 1976. Eddie was fourteen, and apparently he had a crush on this girl and she picked on him for it. I think we have a shot at nailing four counts of first-degree murder on him."

Hunter lets out a low whistle. "Think there's any more victims out there?"

"Hope not. His sister is talking — says her parents suspected Eddie had something to do with her friend's suicide. That's why they sent him to a shrink. She lost touch with him for a long time, but they reconnected about three years ago and she hired him on at her bar to keep tabs on him. You and I ran that MO down months ago — if there are others it's not likely they are in LA. But, there's still a lot of unanswered questions."

"Tough week for you."

"Boy, yeah. How about you? How're you feeling today?"

"I was feeling pretty good earlier. I walked down the street and got some fish tacos."

"Good!"

"I brought some back for you, if you're hungry."

"Thanks. Maybe later. I ate with Charlie. But that's good, though, that you got out."

"When I got there I had to sit down and rest before I could even order the food like I was an 80-year-old man. I had walked two blocks. I used to run five miles before work every morning. I could bench press 225 pounds. Now, I can't walk two blocks to buy myself food."

"Your body is using all that strength to fight the cancer. You'll get it back," McCall says reassuringly. She insists on being optimistic, no matter what the doctors say.

"I hate this. I hate what I've become. My life isn't my own anymore. The cancer rules it. My doctors run it. I have to be taken care of like a child. I'm not a man anymore. When does it end?"

"You're still a man."

"Yeah? Some women came into the restaurant while I was sitting there catching my breath. Bikini tops and short shorts, you know." He gestures with his hands indicating the women's generous assets. McCall rolls her eyes and places her hand over his to make him stop. "A year ago I would have left with all of their numbers. Today? They didn't notice me and I didn't have the energy to care."

"That will come back, too."

"It's not about the girls. It never was. It was fun — the attention, the flirting, the game. There's no joy left. Every day is just about not dying."

She sinks down into the bed until their faces are merely inches apart. "I've been very selfish. I think we all have. I'm so worried about losing you that I'm not actually seeing how much you're hurting. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I'm glad you're here. I've had a lot of time to sit back and think about my life. I can't complain. It's been a pretty good one. But it's been better knowing that I've mattered to someone."

"Of course you've mattered," she whispers and cups her hand around the back of his head, the smoothness of it where there should be hair feeling odd to her fingers.

His eyes close at the contact, and noticing the involuntary response, McCall softly runs her thumb back and forth across his scruffy cheek. Regular shaving went by the wayside months ago, hiding the dimples that he had so often used to charm his way into the harts of so many women. He smiles now at the new sensation, and she's able to uncover a dimple beneath her finger. She's reminded of the times he caressed her cheek when she was the one on her deathbed unable to feel anything from the neck down. The human touch, the warmth and tenderness in it, had felt like heaven. It had been such a small gesture on his part, but had been the most amazing sensation to her — sending waves of warmth through her otherwise cold body. She had never told him the pleasure she had taken from his touch during that time, but she had been eternally grateful for each and every one.

It occurs to her that this man, used to having physical contact with women regular and often, hasn't had any sort of relationship beyond her in a year, and that relationship could at best be described as affectionately plutonic but definitely not intimate.

"Thank you. For being my partner," he says quietly, his eyes still closed in his small moment of pleasure.

She runs the tips of her fingers down the side of his face, and hearing a low, contented sigh from him, she does it again. "Thank you for asking me."

"Best risk I ever took."

She inches herself closer to him, and with her palm pressed against his cheek, she touches her lips to his. She's not sure exactly what she means to do, why she wants to kiss him. His rough, dry lips are unexpectedly different from the last time she had felt them against her skin, but when he doesn't jump at the contact she lets them rest there. When his hand cups the back of her head to keep her there and he presses his mouth harder against hers, she realizes that he might feel different but the man and the desire are the same.

It feels like the kissing continues for a lifetime, his lips now softened from the moisture and her face raw from his five-day beard. Her hand has found it's way inside his shirt, softly rubbing up and down the length of his back, just as her body has found it's way up against his. Where warm skin was once stretched across hard muscle, she now finds loose folds draped over angular bones like a cold tarp attempting to protect the framing of an abandoned house, and she feels the need to wrap her body around him to keep him warm.

His arms are wrapped around her back holding her close to him, making her feel protected and safe just as she's feeling the need to care and protect him. He's out of breath when he pulls his head away, his breath hot and forceful against her cheek.

"I don't know if I can do this," he says between pants.

Her hand stops its reciprocating, but he holds tight when she attempts to pull away.

"Not for lack of wanting. I promise," he says and then he pulls away form her to roll onto his back, his one arm still stretched out underneath her. "I'm not sure…I don't know…if everything still…works."

The weight of this admission is not lost on McCall and she watches him as he refuses to look at her. "That doesn't matter. Whatever happens or…doesn't." She leans into him and continues the kissing, which doesn't take much convincing for him to kiss her back. "We can figure it out."

He shakes his head, "No. You should probably leave before this gets embarrassing."

"Shhh. I've had you when you were healthy and strong, and it was great." She waits for him to finally make eye contact with her. "This is something completely different."

_...to be continued..._

A/N: A quick note of thanks to my awesome beta reader. You have been such a big help the whole way, but your work and patience with this chapter deserve a special shoutout. So thank you.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

It's bright in his bedroom when he wakes. The blinds have never been lowered over these windows, at least not since he's lived here. When you pay what he is paying for this ocean view you don't want to cover it up. It must be mid-morning by the way the sunlight dances off the waves and shouts and cries of laughter occasionally cut through the constant roar of the water. He knows she's gone already without even reaching across the bed, but she had been there when he had fallen asleep — curled up against him, her head cradled against his shoulder and her hand resting over his heart.

He finds his sweatpants and sweatshirt on the floor, and, pulling the twenty-year-old LAPD hoodie over his head, he's suddenly self-conscious about the number of days he's been wearing these same garments. He sniffs both and is relieved to find neither offensive.

She's sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper when he walks in, her legs criss-cross on the chair and both hands wrapped around a coffee mug. The sports section is folded neatly and laying on the opposite corner of the table, waiting for him.

_Is this what marriage is? A congenial cooperative where the other person's wants and needs enter every thought to the point that you forget that they aren't your own?_

In all his life he never imagined finding McCall lounging in his kitchen in a thin fitted t-shirt and boxer shorts and her hair pulled away from her face in a messy knot. His head knows that this scenario has played out multiple times in recent months, but this is the first time he's taken a moment to actually notice it. And although he now knows that she sits and reads the paper with her coffee most mornings, he's never actually thought about the sincerity of the gesture of pulling out the sports section for him or the comfort of sharing a space, nay a life, with a person that did not require his constant attention and affection, but that person knew they were wanted all the same.

"Good morning," she says, breaking him from his reverie. He had not noticed her looking up at him.

It takes him a moment to find his voice, unsure what to say or how to act. "Morning."

McCall smiles at him and then leaves the table and begins pulling items out of the refrigerator. "I made pancakes; I already ate, but it'll just take a few minutes to cook a few more for you. And I'll start a fresh pot of coffee, too. I've drunk most of this one already. Then I will get out of your hair for a while…sort of speak."

Again, he feels inadequate, unsure how to handle this situation. "Aren't you late for work already?"

"I have a mandatory day off — clocked one hundred and thirteen hours since last Monday, and you know how they hate paying us overtime. So I'm going to spend the day at home taking care of some stuff. Every one of my potted plants is dead now — I need to finally throw them out, you know?"

The look of confusion must be written all over his face. She sets the bowl of pancake batter on the counter and walks over to him, as he's still standing in the doorway of his small kitchen. Stretching up, she places her hand on the back of his neck to guide his head down just enough that she can place a tender kiss on the side of his mouth. She keeps their heads just inches apart, as she softly adds, "No regrets. Not a one. I just think we could both use a little space." Then she kisses him again, squarely on the lips this time.

He watches her turn back to her cooking and he can't decide if he loves her more for this unconventional, no-strings-attached morning after, or if he wants to grab her and cling to her until she agrees to never leave again.

"I'll call you when I'm on my way to pick you up this afternoon."

"Pick me up?"

"Marie's birthday party at your mother's house?"

"That's tonight? I completely forgot…" he trails off, scratching the back of his head.

"It's okay. I was thinking we can pick up some flowers on the way," she says and smiles at him again. He's able to keep eye contact with her this time, and he smiles back as for just a second they share a memory of the night before.

XXXXX

Hunter was six years old when Marie was born, and her birth had rocked his world. He had no use for the crying newborn and the frilly pink outfits that everyone else fawned over. It wasn't until two years later, bored in the canned soup aisle of the grocery store with his mother shopping and Marie fidgeting in the shopping cart, that he changed his mind. Gloria had wandered down the aisle a few feet away and little Rick had stood still long enough, so he grabbed the cart with both hands and raced down the aisle. He weaved his way through the other shoppers, a near-miss here and there, not unlike so many of his car chases as a cop. Marie squealed and laughed the whole way, her face lit up like it was Christmas morning, and when they stopped at the end of the aisle her little hands clapped as she bounced up and down crying, "Again! Again! Again!" That was the moment he decided this little human that had invaded his home and taken away his mother's attention was actually pretty fun.

Marie's daughter is now just a few years older than she was that day in the grocery store, but she has the same golden blond hair and affection for her uncle that Marie had for her older brother. She's sitting in his lap as they put together the puzzle he and McCall bought her when they got the bouquet of hydrangeas for Marie.

It's the first day of December, but you wouldn't know it from the weather. The warm sunny day has turned into a comfortably cool evening — perfect for an outdoor celebration in his mother's backyard. A wasp lands on a puzzle piece, the piece with the rainbow that Katie has been looking for to complete Cheer Bear. His niece had rolled her eyes when he handed her the puzzle, complaining, "Nobody plays with Care Bears anymore, Uncle Rick." But he hadn't been sitting at the picnic table two minutes when she climbed onto his knee with the puzzle box in one hand and the tattered and stained Lots-a-Love Bear, affectionately referred to as Lala by those in the know, in the other. She screams when she sees the bug and burrows into Hunter's chest.

He swats at the wasp and calmly reassures Katie, "I got it, baby girl. I'm not going to let a little bee get you."

"Whew, that was close," she says just as Marie is sliding into the opposite side of the table, and both Marie and Hunter stifle giggles as they catch each other's eyes.

"You just missed a near catastrophe. I almost had to call in a code black and yellow," Hunter informs Marie.

"Yeah, it would have been _bad," _Katie says, and the two adults laugh again, a little less concealed this time.

"You two seem very busy over here by yourselves," Marie says, setting a glass of orange juice in front of Hunter.

Yes, they have been sitting here alone for some time. The large backyard where he learned to throw a baseball and was once grounded for two whole weeks after digging up his mother's rose bushes looking for dinosaur fossils is full of aunts and cousins and old family friends who are all there to wish Marie a happy birthday, but not a one of them knows what to say to the withering man they hardly recognize. He doesn't blame them, though. Exactly what do you say to a man who will likely be in a casket the next time you see him? "I hear that the price of burial plots is skyrocketing in San Diego. Hope you bought early." Or maybe: "Hey, Bullock's has a sale on hats this weekend. Seems like something that would interest you." Or more likely: "Just curious here…has anyone claimed your Colt .32, yet? You know, the one your father left you."

"We don't mind," he says, "do we, Katie? We have very important business to attend to. I mean, they're here to see you anyway, right?"

"No, you are wrong there, brother. That older couple over there talking to Dee Dee? The short red-headed lady with the balding gentleman, not the couple that look like pugs."

Hunter scans the yard until he spots McCall near those dear rose bushes surrounded by a smattering of people as if she's giving a press conference. He laughs when, indeed, there is a man and woman standing next to McCall who both resemble pugs.

"I mean, really. How does that happen? Both of them could pass as actual dogs!" Marie continues, laughing with Hunter. "But that other couple I don't even know who they are. Never met them before."

"They used to live across the street. Their son died in the war. He and I were best friends all through grade school. I practically lived over at their house. She made homemade bread every day — I went over for the sandwiches. "

"Really? I don't remember any of that."

"You were pretty young."

"Exactly! These people aren't here to see me. They're here to see you."

"Then who are the pug people?"

"Oh, that's the couple that moved in next door a few years ago. They are really a nice couple and they have helped Mom with several things. I shouldn't be so mean. I just don't understand why nobody's over here talking to you when you're the reason they're here. They are all over there hounding Dee Dee instead."

"They're nosy, but they don't know what to say to me."

"Maybe so. Poor Dee Dee. She was so patient with Aunt Alma when she insisted that you two are married. She swears up and down that she attended your wedding at St. Vincent. You're lucky Dee Dee has such a good sense of humor."

He looks over at her again — making polite conversation with HIS acquaintances, being congenial with HIS family. Her expression is soft and pleasant, not the bright and animated face he's used to seeing, and he's sure she must be fielding questions about him and his health.

She sees him watching her and he doesn't even attempt to mask it. She winks at him and then turns her attention back to the pug-faced lady, saying something to her before giving her a friendly hug. He continues to watch her as she makes her way toward the picnic table, but his nephew intercepts her just as she's approaching him.

_I'm so worried about losing you that I'm not actually seeing how much you're hurting. I'm sorry._

She had apologized to him last night, but tonight, seeing her standing here under the bright patio light looking uncharacteristically thin herself, he realizes perhaps it should have been him apologizing to her. Her hair is longer than he's ever seen it before, and again she's wearing it pulled back away from her face in a ponytail. There are crow's feet around her eyes when she smiles at the young boy, and a few strands of hair near her temple sparkle in the light. His cancer has taken a toll on her as well, far beyond her crumbled engagement and a few unsolved homicides.

She laughs and looks over at him, expecting to share in whatever funny his ten-year old nephew has just made, and he fakes a laugh.

_This is something completely different _she had said to him. Yes. Yes it was. It was slow. It was soft. It was encouraging words and relaxing caresses. It was emotional need, not sexual lust. It was a good-bye.

_I love you. Don't forget that when I'm gone. That I. Loved. You. _He told her late into the night and she cried. Pressed into his chest, his arms wrapped around her tight and his cheek against the top of her head, her tears had rolled down his chest.

"Rick? Earth to Rick. How is the new treatment going?" Marie asks, waving her hand in front of Hunter's face.

"Yeah," he responds, realizing she's talking to him. "Fine, uh, it's going. I mean, I won't know anything until my next scan in February."

"I was thinking about staying with you next weekend. We can spend some time together and give Dee Dee a break. I'm sure she's tired of your cranky butt."

He looks away from Marie to find that McCall has left again, pulled away by his mother to help set out the food.

"Uh, you don't need to do that. You have the kids to take care of."

She follows his gaze, and seeing McCall at the end of it, she pats has arm and smiles.

"I see."

Shifting his attention back to Marie, he snips, "You see what?"

She pats his arm again as she leaves the table to go help Gloria and McCall.

After the food and cake has been eaten, candles blown out and well wishes made, McCall continues to float around the garden like a social butterfly. The crowd has dwindled to just a few close relations, but Hunter still prefers to participate from the sidelines. He's not feeling well, hasn't really since they arrived, but the ill feeling is escalating. Deciding it's time to call defeat and go home, he makes his way over to McCall.

"Sorry to interrupt," he says to her and his two cousins, suddenly feeling dizzy. "I think I've had enough fun for one night."

McCall reaches out her hand to rub the side his arm, indicating to him that she understands his request, as she finishes relaying her story to the women. But once her hand makes contact she stops mid sentence.

"Hunter, you're burning up," she exclaims, placing her other hand to his forehead. "Something's wrong. We're going to the ER."

XXXXX

"Hey there, sleepyhead," McCall says softly.

It takes him a minute to remember where he is, the darkened hospital room slowly coming into focus. He rubs his hands over his face, relieved that it no longer feels hot. "You're back already?"

"I've been back for a while; you've been sleeping peacefully. How do you feel?"

"Good. I think." He gingerly lifts himself up, testing whether that's true or not. McCall places another pillow behind his back and guides his shoulders back down to the bed. "But cold. I'm freezing."

She was here early this morning, when he was grumpy and complaining, his fever finally gone but his body still aching and his head still spinning. He had been cold then, continuing to shake even after the nurse brought him another blanket. McCall said something about bringing him some warm clothes.

"As promised," she says as she reaches into a bag on the floor next to her. With two fingers, she pulls out a dark blue knit cap as if it were a dirty rag. "New York Giants for you, and…" Reaching back into the bag and coming up with another knit cap, "Rams for me. Why do you even have that ugly thing?" she points to the Giants hat with her chin as she fidgets with the one in her hand and pulls it over her head.

"Ten years ago or so, I was in New York City in April. I didn't expect it to be cold, but a crazy snowstorm came through and I didn't have any warm clothes. It was this or New York Rangers. I can't even pretend to like hockey," he says, taking a look at the hat he had only worn those few days in New York, before pulling it down over his freezing cold ears. "So what's with the Bobbsey twins act?"

"A show of solidarity. I'd cut my hair off and shave my head, but I think you prefer me with my hair."

"I think you are right." He is rewarded with a smile — that smile he loves so much yet sees so rarely these days. He reaches up and brushes her hair back into the hat so that all he can see is her face surrounded by the bright gold edge of the hat. "I don't know," this time nudging her hair off her shoulders and holding it behind her neck, "with a bald head you would make a great drag queen."

"A drag queen?"

"Yeah. Your fans would love you, and they would never suspect that you were really a woman."

He chuckles as she swats his hand away.

"Scoot over," she demands as she begins to lift the edge of the blankets. He does as asked and she lies down next to him hip to hip. Just a few months ago this would not have been possible, to lay side-by-side on a hospital bed. Even now, in his emaciated state, it is a tight fit. The length of her side is pressed up against his, with her cheek brushing against his shoulder, and he soaks in her warmth.

"Do you miss him?" he asks once she seems settled next to him.

"Do I miss whom?" she asks in response, although they both now who. He looks down at the top of her head, waiting for her to give up and answer. Yesterday was supposed to be her wedding day. Instead, she had spent the day sitting at his bedside as he was in and out of consciousness. He knew she was there, but he had been too sick to say anything. Every time he woke, there she was holding his hand, offering him water, stroking his cheek in comfort. Maybe she was just checking for a fever, but either way it was a comfort to him. She didn't need to be there, yesterday or today. There are plenty of nurses to care for him, and he's pretty sure his mother had been there yesterday as well.

McCall could have taken a break from taking care of him. She could have caught up on some sleep, or gotten a manicure, or spent the day doing anything other than sitting in a hospital with a dying man. Even today. He is better. The infection is under control and the fever is gone. Charlie visited him this morning on his way to mass. His mother would be showing up as soon as mass is over. But no, McCall would not be anywhere else on this day, the day that was supposed to be the happiest of her life.

She heaves a loud sigh before speaking, "No, not really. I never really did." He remains silent, waiting for her to continue. "At the time I felt like I was being pulled in two opposite directions between two separate lives. I couldn't seem to make them fit together. It was almost a relief when the relationship was over."

"But you loved him."

"I think I thought I loved him. If it were meant to be, things would have worked out differently. It wasn't meant to be. Now hand me the remote, the Rams' game started twenty minutes ago."

"I'm sorry."

She turns her head up, moving her body away from him, in order to see his face. Their eyes connect for a long moment. They both know he isn't really sorry. He had needed her, still needed her, and she answered the call without hesitation every single time. There was no way she could have ever made those two lives, those two separate relationships, work harmoniously and he is selfishly pleased she had chosen him. But he is sorry that it has caused her pain, and that it will continue to cause her pain for possibly years to come. She had followed her heart, knowing that it was the tragic choice.

Returning to her position against him and turning her attention to the still dark TV, she pats his arm without a word.

"Now, seriously, the remote. I want to see how that Aikman kid from UCLA does against our Rams today."

"We are going to pound his ass into the grass," he snarls, and she giggles as she takes the remote from his hand.

_...to be continued..._


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

This cold and dreary winter morning has McCall yearning to be curled up in front of her fireplace sipping a hot cup of coffee instead of shielding herself from the icy wind. The buildings along Main Street create a wind tunnel, at times making it difficult to stand her ground as she returns to Parker Center. Her early morning meeting with a deputy DA had ended a short ten minutes after it began, thanks to the intrusion of a witness to another case barging into the District Attorney's offices screaming obscenities, and McCall almost burst into tears of frustration right there in the office.

After leaving the office, business unfinished, she opts to run into a coffee shop for a good cup of coffee to go and temporary relief from the outside elements. "Bad" coffee lost its appeal long ago when, at times, coffee became the highlight of her day.

"Dee Dee?" a timid voice asks, and McCall feels a hand on the back of her arm.

The face looking at her, waiting for a response, seems like a distant memory too long forgotten to recall. The cashier holds a to-go cup out for McCall to take, and she quickly drops her change into her purse and accepts the coffee, all the while racking her brain to place this auburn-haired beauty.

"Rachel," the woman says, "I dated—"

"Yes, Rachel, of course. I remember," McCall interrupts, and she can feel her face flush. As another customer approaches the counter, both McCall and Rachel awkwardly move off to the side. "Uh…it's uh…good to see you."

"You, too," Rachel says with a shy smile. "I don't want to hold you up on your way to work. I just wanted to say hi."

"Oh, no, it's fine," McCall says as an older man bumps into her and she braces herself for hot coffee to splash onto her hand. "How have you been?" she asks for a lack of anything else to say.

"Good. Just, like, good I guess. And you and Mitch?"

"Oh, uh, fine. I mean, I am, at least. Mitch and I aren't together…"

"I'm so sorry! I just assumed…you two seemed… Sorry."

"It's okay. Things just don't work out sometimes."

Rachel nods her head. "And how's Rick?"

Of course Rachel would ask about Hunter. She should have been ready for it. _What do I say?_ _Yeah, so, your ex-boyfriend is dying. Oh, and, by the way, we are living together. _

"He's doing okay."

"Good," Rachel says. There's an awkward exchange of glances — Rachel seems to be hoping for more information and McCall avoiding the truth. "Well, I guess I better go. It was nice bumping into you."

"You, too," she says and watches as Rachel turns and walks away, overwhelmed by the sadness in Rachel's eyes after all this time, and a ping of regret of what could have been thumps McCall's heart. A single event, a change of course for a single person, creates a ripple that has the ability to tear apart the lives of three others. She is still watching when Rachel suddenly halts and returns to her.

"Could you, maybe, tell Rick I said hi?" Rachel asks, clutching the ends of her scarf with both hands.

"I will."

"I still wonder, you know, what happened. It was just sudden…and...and, like, no explanation."

She studies Rachel's face a moment, wondering if she should tell her the truth and why it matters. She had been frustrated with Hunter when he had refused to tell Rachel about his diagnosis, so sure that Rachel was left in the wings with a bunch of answered questions and insecurities. "Are you in a hurry? Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"

"Yeah, sure, that would be nice."

After they order Rachel's drink, McCall quickly weaves her way to a table in the back corner hoping to snag it just as the current occupants are preparing to leave. She brushes off a few crumbs before placing her cup on the table and wrapping her hands around it as if the paper cup is going to hold her steady. Rachel takes her seat and untangles her scarf from around her neck with clumsy fingers.

"That's a beautiful scarf," McCall says, buying herself time. She shouldn't be doing this.

"It is, isn't it? My mother gave it to me for Christmas and it was finally cold enough today to wear it," Rachel says, visibly relaxing into the small talk. "Did you have a good Christmas?"

Christmas? She was hardly aware that Christmas had come and gone. She spent Christmas Eve at her parents' house and stayed the night in the bedroom she had grown up in, not wanting to sleep alone in her own painfully silent house. The only presents she had received were a guilt trip from her mother for canceling the wedding and two dead fish. But let's be honest, it would have been a true Christmas miracle to have any live fish remaining at this point anyway.

Without thinking, McCall reaches up to brush the pearl earring in her right ear — an unwitting reminder of her actual Christmas present. They were lovely and thoughtful, and she had no doubt that the simple pearl studs had been Hunter's idea and purchased with Hunter's money, but she also knew that Marie had been the one to actually do the shopping and the wrapping. The awkward moment of opening the present, sitting in a cramped hospital room with eight other Hunters watching had put a damper on the fact that Hunter had remembered her off-handed comment several years ago that she wished she had a pair of earrings to wear with the pearl pendant Steve had given her for her birthday just before his death. There was meaning there, a unspoken acknowledgement that he has always listened and always cared, perhaps even a confession that he had been waiting for an opportunity to grant her that wish.

"It's always nice to spend time with family," McCall finally replies, silencing the negativity in her head.

"Look, you don't have to pussy-foot around anything. I'm assuming Rick broke up with me for somebody else. I just wish he'd been honest with me."

"Oh, no, that's not it at all." McCall pauses a moment, gazing out the window as she contemplates her words.

Rachel laughs nervously. "When you said you and Mitch broke up I thought maybe it was you."

McCall uncrosses her legs underneath the table and then re-crosses the other direction, and her fingers gently fluff her bangs. "No, definitely not that. Listen, Rachel…um…Rick has Lymphoma. It's a form of blood cancer."

"Oh my God!" Rachel exclaims, covering her mouth with her hands. "Is he going to be okay? I mean, like, with chemo or whatever?"

"He is going through chemo. Yes. But, so far it's not looking good."

"Oh my God. I don't know what else to say. Oh my God."

"It's been a really tough time for him. But, there wasn't anything you could have done differently. He was worried about the cancer. That's all."

"Why didn't he tell me?"

"I know it's hard to see, but I think he thought not telling you would be easier for you. He really did care for you, you know."

Rachel slowly sits back in her chair. There's a long silence before she speaks again. "What do you mean it's not looking good?"

"The chemo he has received so far has stopped the cancer from spreading, but that's it. It has also made him very ill. In fact, he just got out of the hospital last week after contracting an infection."

"I just can't believe it. He was so healthy. Always eating healthy and exercising. He's the last person I'd expect this to happen to."

"I know. He's trying an experimental treatment now." McCall pauses and watches her finger trace the edge of the lid of her cup. Her nail is short and jagged from chewing, a habit she seems to have picked up recently. _When was my last manicure?_

"We are hopeful," she continues, "but we won't know anything for a few more weeks."

"Do you think it would be okay if I went to see him?"

"Oh, um, yeah, sure. He's not always feeling up to seeing people, you know, but he might enjoy hearing from you."

"Okay, I will. Thank you. Thanks for telling me," Rachel says, and McCall instantly regrets violating Hunter's privacy.

XXXXX

"What're you doing out here?" McCall asks, finding Hunter sitting out on his deck.

"Getting some fresh air. It's a nice day."

"Mmm, it is," she says turning her face toward the setting sun, closing her eyes as she soaks in the warmth. Two weeks ago it was record-breaking cold, but today might as well be May.

"I want to go to the beach," he says and holds out a small cooler for her to take. "You carry this and I'll get the chairs."

"Are we spending the whole night out there? What is all this?"

"Just help me, will ya?"

She removes her suit jacket, laying it over the back of a chair, and takes the cooler from him. They walk down the stairs in silence, Hunter leaving her behind as she takes off her shoes and socks at the edge of the sand.

He already has the folding beach chairs open and waiting when she catches up to him. From the cooler he pulls out a bottle of champagne and tugs on the wire cage over the cork.

"What are you doing? You're not supposed to drink."

"If there was ever a day to break the rules, this is it. I think I, WE, both deserve a glass of this," he says, holding the bottle so that she can read the label. Champagne isn't something in her wheelhouse, but the label appears to actually be French and she assumes that he spent a pretty penny on it.

"Hunter…"

"Relax, will ya? A bottle of this isn't going to kill me," he says as he hands her a plastic cup. She accepts it reluctantly.

"Oh, Rick…," she whispers sympathetically, reaching out to squeeze his arm, assuming the worst.

"And neither is cancer."

She holds her breath and watches him as her mind races through about a hundred negative meanings for that statement.

"At least not any time soon. Because…I am…100%...cancer free." He smiles at her, an honest to goodness smile.

"You're joking. This can't… You can't…"

"I wouldn't joke about this. The cancer is gone," he laughs in disbelief as he says the words. "We did it, Dee Dee. We beat cancer."

An involuntary scream escapes her mouth as McCall throws herself into his lap, wrapping her arms around him so tightly he nearly chokes and champagne sloshes all over the both of them. He's laughing as she pulls away and presses a kiss hard against his lips.

"This is real? You're going to be okay?"

"Yeah, baby, it's real. Every test, every one, came back negative of any sign of disease."

She hugs him again, burying her head in his neck as tears of joy smart her eyes. Eventually, she pulls away and moves back to her chair, sniffling and wiping her fingers across her tear-soaked cheeks.

"Thank you," he chokes, the words barely getting out of his mouth as emotion takes over.

She grabs hold of his hand and entwines their fingers in silent response.

"I, uh, wanted to make a toast, but I think these cups need refilling."

She laughs as she realizes that she is still holding that plastic cup, now empty, and lets go of his hand so that he can refill it. "Wait…did I miss your appointment with Dr. Patel? I have it on my calendar for tomorrow."

"No, no, it is tomorrow. He said he couldn't wait to tell me the good news, so he called this morning."

"Can I still go with you tomorrow?"

"I don't think it's necessary. We're just going to talk about what happens now — how much more chemo, that kind of stuff," he says, placing the bottle back into the cooler. "Okay, so now that toast."

"Yes, toast."

"Well, first off, to Dr. Patel for performing a miracle."

"Absolutely! To Dr. Patel," McCall agrees as she raises her cup.

"But more importantly, to you," he says, "because Dr. Patel would not have been able to work his magic if it wasn't for you. I owe you—"

"Nothing. You owe me nothing. I'm your partner; I've always got your back." She knows he wants to correct her — that she has a new partner, that even when he's healthy enough to return to work it's unlikely they will ever be partners again, that at forty-four and weakened from more than a year of chemotherapy he may never be able to return to the physical demands of a homicide detective — so she quickly changes her tone. "Except maybe a steak. You can owe me a nice, big, juicy steak. And some chocolate cake. But, seriously, I think you're the one we should be toasting. You have endured unspeakable pain and suffered for longer than any human should ever have to suffer, and you have done it with grace and dignity."

"Alright, how about we just say, 'Adios lymphoma. Never come back. Rot in hell you effing son of a bitch.' "

"Cheers to that!" she laughs and taps her cup to his.

They both sip their drinks, watching the sun play on the horizon. Yesterday, McCall would have likened the setting sun to the end, but today, in light of Hunter's news, she can enjoy the beauty of knowing that the sun will rise and set again tomorrow and the day after that.

"So what else you got in this thing?" she asks, nudging the cooler with her foot.

"Well, I don't have a big, juicy steak for you, but I did come prepared with chocolate cake."

"No kidding?"

He bends over and pulls out two small styrofoam containers and plastic forks, handing one of each to McCall. "I would hope that I know you well enough by now to know that no celebration would complete without chocolate."

At the end of the celebration, Hunter lugs his tired body back up to his condo while McCall puts away the remnants of their picnic. After a long shower, letting the hot spray soothe her muscles and the steam clear her thoughts, she heads upstairs.

Hunter is sound asleep, softly snoring, when she walks into his room. She crawls into bed, curling her legs up between her and Hunter, just as she's done every night since his return from the hospital. There's no understanding between them, there's no need to define anything when there is no future to consider. But, she's been there every night, an unspoken commitment between them. And now, an unknown future lays ahead, but a future no less.

_...to be continued..._


End file.
